


Third Time's A Charm

by Seamless_Boundaries



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Confessions, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, My young little babies, Post-Season/Series 04, Time Travel, Vortex Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-03-05 11:27:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 73,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18827758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seamless_Boundaries/pseuds/Seamless_Boundaries
Summary: "I wish I'd never met you."When John Watson has said this to Sherlock, he hadn't thought Mycroft would take him for his word.Now, thrown back into 2010 on January the 29th he only has three chances to ensure that he never meets the man he loves.Playing with history might be tough, but if he tries hard enough, John might just have enough time to sort out the matters of his heart.





	1. Leaving Without Saying Goodbye

They were arguing. 

Again. 

It had increased greatly in frequency over the last few days, and every little thing that either said would somehow end up offending the other. It was, in fact, the things they hadn’t said that had angered them, and they knew that, but neither could summon their courage to speak about it. 

And so they fought over who had to pick up Rosie from daycare when they were on a case or why Sherlock couldn’t take Rosie along for cases. 

Until one day, when they were both arguing over something, something so very mundane, that John noticed a feverish spark in Sherlock's eyes. 

John's jaw clenched, his senses heightened, his eyes roamed over Sherlock, looking for signs. Sherlock's eyes were blown wide, his hands a little shaky. John stopped mid sentence, his breath caught momentarily, anger quickly rising. He wanted nothing more than to strangle Sherlock to the ground. 

“Sherlock.” 

The calm in his voice was all Sherlock needed to know that John knew. He glanced away and to the floor.He couldn't look into John's eyes, afraid to face the anger in them. But somehow, gathering the courage he looked up.What he found instead was  _ hurt _ . 

"Show me your hands.” John spoke quietly.

"What?-- Why?" The pause was enough to tell John the truth. 

It all made sense. 

The way Sherlock always wore long sleeves these days, the way he didn't come out for hours from his room, and when questioned said he was doing an experiment. And John hadn't given it a second thought. 

“I—I thought that you had –stopped.”

 “John—“ he tried, but no words came out. He didn’t have any explanation. 

“Why? Why did you –use ---again.” John’s voice had dropped to a strangled whisper, his watery eyes fixed on Sherlock, a sentence left unsaid but glaringly obvious in his voice.  _ You had promised you wouldn't. For me, for Rosie. _

Sherlock took in a deep breath, and that moment which would have been otherwise silent, was interrupted by an 'Ah!' From Rosie, who was in the corner of the room, sitting on a yellow blanket, which was barely seen under the rubble of toys. 

She had sensed the discomfort in the room, and had gone completely still. 

“John it became too much. She- Rosie—I was---nightmares—you died. John, I couldn’t.” Sherlock's voice, like his eyes were pleading, begging John to understand. 

John however, didn’t. his brain was fixed on one word. “Rosie. My daughter. Our daughter I considered her to be, but obviously I was wrong.”

“No, John, its. It’s just that—she, I mean having a child is not ideal for my lifestyle—not that-“ 

John took in a sharp breath at this, his eyebrows rising rapidly in a split second, before knitting together angrily. “Oh, so now Rosie isn’t ideal for your lifestyle. Maybe one day I won’t be ideal for your lifestyle as well. Want to get rid of me too?” 

“I never meant tha-“ Sherlock started.

“Stop. Please stop Sherlock. I don’t want to—I can’t hear you make any more excuses. ”his voice was cracking. 

He took a deep breath, his eyes shut for a moment, and then said, “If Rosie and I are a burden to you, if we have reduced you to this state, then I think we should leave.” 

Now that Rosie’s name was mentioned enough times to gain her attention fully, she gave a low cry to voice her despair at her parents arguing. John moved towards her, shushing her with a quick reassurance that everything was okay.

The drug was pumping through Sherlock's veins, and his cocaine-addled brain was shocked into silence at the mere thought of John leaving.He had been so alone. And then, like a miracle, John Watson had entered his life. He owed john so much. Too much. He had to convince John to stay. He had always believed that it was the danger that the work provided that kept John here in Baker Street. And so he made his plea. 

“John, you can’t leave. This,” he pointed to the laptop screen where john had been writing his blog, “is what you do, john. This is what  _ we  _ do. We are addicts in need of a fix and this is the only way we can get it. And I know it’s not ideal. But you and I and Rosie, we can make this work together. Have no doubt for the affection I have for her John. She is indeed, our daughter.” 

He finished, carefully looking at John's back, which had frozen when Sherlock had started talking. 

John knew Sherlock was right. 

He always was. 

He could never leave Sherlock. It repulsed him, this need, he was sure it was wrong. And yet, it never seemed so with Sherlock. It could seem nothing but irrevocably right to John when it came to Sherlock. John put Rosie back on her blanket, and turning around, looked up at him. There he stood, tall, with those cheekbones, that lean figure, that alabaster skin and the most sharp and observant eyes John had ever seen. The great Sherlock Holmes. 

But there were signs of withering. 

His eyes were both energetic due to the cocaine, and tired, a slight stubble had grown on his cheeks, there were lines beginning to develop under his eyes, they were getting heavier.

Now there was moisture in them. 

There was the detective, pulled down by sorrow. Sorrow caused by John. It pained him to see Sherlock reduced to this state. It killed him to know that he himself was the reason. 

His eyes flitted to Sherlock's hair, dark brown curls, and he remembered them matted with blood, his porcelain skin tarnished with the dark red. He knew it wasn't real, but the image haunted him all the same. 

He remembered the blood pouring from Sherlock's chest, not more than a few years later, those few seconds in the hospital where John thought he would lose him again. Mary had shot Sherlock so that John wouldn't know. 

Again, it seemed to John, he was the source of Sherlock's pain. 

He hated himself for it. 

Hated that while Sherlock had saved his life the day he met him, John had only given him pain since then. He wished that they wouldn't have had to face such pain, he wished Sherlock wouldn't have had to feel it, he wished-- 

“I wish I’d never met you”

He realised too late that he had said that out loud and what it must have sounded like. The shattered look on Sherlock’s face confirmed John of his suspicions. He hadn’t meant it that way. But even then he said nothing.

A savage thought had entered his brain, that Sherlock might now feel a fraction of the pain he had given John when he jumped off the roof and the wave of self hatred that followed engulfed John and rendered him mute. 

Sherlock was silent, his head towards the ground, his hands shaking uncontrollably. 

This silence was more unbearable than the shouting, at least for Rosie, who began wailing. Both the men instinctively reached out for her, but John checked Sherlock in his tracks with an outstretched arm signalling him to stop and went to attend to Rosie. Sherlock's lower lip quivered but he said nothing. Then, silently, he moved to his bedroom door and John knew why. 

John imagined pale white hands with long elegant fingers holding the syringe, shaky with anticipation. If thoughts could physically injure, this had come close enough for John. But he did nothing as the man disappeared behind the door. 

He simply stood there, breathing. Not knowing whether to jump off a roof like Sherlock had, or dissolve right here and now into a puddle of sobs. 

 

Instead, he reached out to Rosie, murmuring that everything was okay and that he'd be back soon, left her amidst her toys the argument forgotten, took his coat, and stepped into the winter evening, the cold wind sharp as a slap in his face. 

He hadn't known. 

Sherlock was using again, was distressed, pained, and John hadn't known. He didn't know how long this was happening, or what had caused it to start. 

Well now he did. 

Parenting, apparently was a job that Sherlock was not comfortable doing. And the nightmares.  _ Jesus Christ _ , John thought. 

He'd stayed in denial, thinking that things weren't that bad, but this was irrefutable evidence that they were far worse than bad. He had known things had been slipping, but not so much and so quickly. 

They’d both said that they had forgiven each other, knowing all too well that they hadn’t. John had pushed his feelings away, tried to forget it all, for happy times to return, but it was too difficult. 

The tension between them was straining as it increased each day, pushed forward by the weight of the things unspoken between them. There was an urgent need to talk, to discuss things. To settle old scores. To be rid of the past that had settled, John knew, on Sherlock too, making his shoulders sag under it pressure. 

John hadn’t raided Sherlock’s bedroom for quite a while, too busy with Rosie and the cases, and because he hadn't thought about anything, he hadn't had a clue about the troubles stirring in Sherlock's brain.

He stood for a second on the footpath he was walking on and shut his eyes tightly. He took a deep breath, trying to just... Live.  _ Survive _ . 

He opened his eyes, and started to move forward, now that multiple elbows had pushed into him to brush past him, when he found a long black car standing next to him, it's door open in invitation. 

John sighed audibly, thinking that he should have known that this was coming and then, ruefully thought to himself, that didn't know a lot of things regarding the people around him these days. 

So he stepped into the car, finding Anthea next to him, once again on her phone. She didn't pay attention to him as continued texting. John remembered briefly his first meeting with Anthea, and almost smiled at his foolish flirting. She was far from the man he had fallen for that night. 

The car sped off, and John didn't even bother to see where, knowing it was another secluded basement or parking lot.

He hadn't been expecting going to Mycroft's office, but it wasn't too surprising. It was perhaps, John thought, a measure of the seriousness of the situation, that he was brought here. 

John had been there before. 

It was a large imposing room, built underground, with light pouring in from square holes, and a large portrait of Queen Elizabeth II behind Mycroft's desk. John wasn't sure he liked the feel of it. It made you feel- captive. 

"Dr. Watson." 

Mycroft's voice drawled as John entered, standing In between his large plush black chair and his even larger mahogany desk, which was neatly stacked with papers. His palms were splayed on the desktop, his back bent slightly, as he looked at John amidst all the paperwork. 

"Mycroft." John replied curtly. They had never been on the best of terms and his argument with Sherlock had further reduced his desire to maintain any politeness. 

"Please do sit." Mycroft motioned towards the chair on the other side of the table. 

"No thank you very much, I'm better off standing." John's voice did not contain an ounce of sincerity that usually accompanied those words. 

"Very well. " Mycroft paused. He straightened up a bit. "I see that my brother and you have been having... arguments very frequently these days. I'm disappointed to know that you didn't find out about his activities sooner." 

Mycroft's gaze was as steady as his voice, betraying no emotion, except a detached disappointment. 

John looked at his shoes, then at the piles of papers on Mycroft's desk, and back at his shoes. He didn't know what to say. 

"Are you aware of how long this has been going on? Or are you blissfully ignorant of the fact that my brother has been taking plentiful of drugs since the past  _ two weeks _ ?" He said the last two words scathingly, his earlier disinterest falling apart, intending every bit of the wound he had just inflicted on John. 

John looked up in surprise and alarm "What? Two weeks! I had no clue--" 

Mycroft regarded him with a slightly pained expression. He took a deep breath. "Do you love him, John?" 

John was completely taken aback by the question and the directness of Mycroft's voice. 

"Sorry, what?" 

John had never admitted it out loud. Never even fully thought about it in his head, it was too painful to think about. He remembered Mycroft asking Sherlock a similar question. "So who loves you? Assuming it's not a long list." And John had frozen then, afraid that his wildly beating heart would have given away the answer. 

"I think I made myself perfectly clear." Mycroft said plainly. 

John hesitated,"I mean- y-yes-like a friend I suppose-- I'm not gay you know-I mean that I--" 

"Stop!"

 Mycroft banged his hand on the wood, his voice laced with obvious irritation"You know what I mean very well John! Stop with this idiocy of yours. I am not here to cater to your sexuality crisis." 

John took a deep breath and looked at his shoes. Mycroft probably knew already and was just wanting to confirm it. He let out the breath he was holding and said,"Yes. I- I do." his  voice was quiet. 

This was met by silence. Funny, John thought, he had expected a blast, a loud bang, an applause or hell's fire engulfing him. But there was nothing. 

"Good. Then you'll do as you declared earlier. Make sure that 'You never met him'. " 

"But Mycroft, do you think he'll be-- I mean if i --" 

They both knew what John was saying. Sherlock had been known to go in a downward spiral due to John's absence before. How would be take to John permanently leaving his life? 

"Do still believe he's not better off without you?" Mycroft asked. When John gave no answer, Mycroft slumped his shoulders in resignation. 

He sighed, and using a remote that he found in a coat pocket, he switched on something behind John, who stood there frozen.

Was there anything in the world that could force him to leave Sherlock? 

An image was suddenly projected on the wall behind Mycroft. Startled, John looked at it. It grew clearer as his eyes snapped into focus. 

It was a photo of someone's back, skin white as porcelain, covered in horribly grotesque scars made from what appeared to be a whip. They were raw, and the skin was a vulnerable pinkish red, purple at some edges. John recoiled with horror, because it was surely not- it couldn't have been-

"Yes, that is indeed Sherlock's back." Mycroft said, accurately sensing John's terror. "Do you know under which circumstances did he sustain these injuries?"

John's shocked face and watering eyes were answer enough. 

"He sustained them during the two years after his staged suicide from St Bart's roof. He jumped, Doctor Watson, to save your life." 

"Save-Me?" John's eyes, which had been glued to the image in front of him, now fell on Mycroft,widening. 

John hadn't known. 

They had never talked about it. The only explanation he'd gotten was that Sherlock had to dismantle Moriarty's network. His mind slightly reeled at all the implications this had, and he wished, once more, that they had talked more about---about  _ all  _ of it. 

 

"Yes. Moriarty threatened him to kill you-and two others-- but primarily you. And to save your life, my brother jumped off the roof of St Bart's, and consequently worked for two years to dismantle what he thought is all of Moriarty's network." 

 

John started. "Wait, what do you mean, 'what he thought'? He has dismantled the entire network, hasn't he?" He asked, both confused and hurt, and a bit frustrated by the fact that all of Sherlock's efforts, all of these injuries and pain was for nothing. 

Mycroft smiled wearily at him, "That, Dr Watson, is a story for another time. Bringing the point back home, you became a liability for Sherlock due to which he had to go through all of this." 

John stood still, breathing out shakily. He closed his eyes as if in pain. 

It had been his fear, the very thing plaguing him- The fact that he was the reason Sherlock had experienced pain. It made him angry. It made him what to throttle Sherlock, shake him to his core, and ask, why,  _ why  _ did he do all of it?

Instead, he thought of the Sherlock he had left in the flat, the man who was probably sitting with drugs pumping in his veins instead of blood, his head swimming. The tired eyes and slumped body of the man he had witnessed today. That was all it took for him to decide. 

He opened his eyes, made a brave attempt at keeping his voice and determination strong. He failed at both. 

"Fine. I'll take Rosie-- and leave." It was hard to even talk, his voice trembling dangerously. 

It will all be fine, John thought, I have enough money to temporarily stay somewhere, and then I can continue at the clinic and-- 

"Oh no, Dr Watson," Mycroft voice almost had a chuckle in it, " When I said you would do as you had earlier declared, I meant it quite literally." 

John, shocked out of his mental ramblings, incredulously said, " _ What _ ? ' Never have met him'? What are you going to do, go back in time and keep us apart?" 

"Not at all, Dr Watson," Mycroft said evenly, "That is what  _ you  _ are going to do." 

\----------- 

John was sure Mycroft had gone mental. _ Finally cracked under all that pressure. _ John thought. 

Mycroft just looked amusedly at him, reading his mind as usual and saying, "No John. I most assuredly haven't gone insane. Now, if you will, please follow me." 

John had wanted to ask where they were going, but said nothing knowing he wouldn't get an answer, and walked behind Mycroft, still doubting the latter's sanity. 

Mycroft led him down many corridors and doors, so that John stopped keeping track of the way back, and left his safety in the hands of fate. Plus, he was pretty sure he could overpower Mycroft easily if he wanted to. 

Finally, they reached a room, and after a retinal scan, a voice issued from the panel next to the door, "Enter voice key." 

Mycroft paused for a moment, then with his face contorted as if there was a lemon was in his mouth, said something. He had lowered his voice, to make his words inaudible to John. 

"Key Incorrect, please enter again." 

Mycroft sighed, giving up, his face still full of sourness, and said, clearly,"Wibbly-Wobbly Timey-Wimey." 

John couldn't help it. He burst into a fit of giggles, making it last longer than was strictly necessary, just to make Mycroft's scowl even deeper. 

The voice said "Access permitted" in the background of his giggles and the door slid open silently. 

"That's your password?" John said a bit breathless from all the laughing. 

"Yes. The owner of the object inside requested this be the key and the others," Mycroft's face showed open disappointment, as if the others had committed a serious breach of civility, "thought that it would be bit of a laugh'." 

"Oh," John said, his sarcasm very apparent, "people laughing? That must have been very hard on you." 

Mycroft looked like he wanted to feed John to the hound in Baskerville, but said nothing except giving John a glare. 

As he went inside the room, John smirked, following the older Holmes. 

It was a mostly empty room, and John couldn't quite make out what was so important that those security measures had been necessary. It was a grey walled room with only a round table in the middle of it, upon which rested what to John looked like a fancy leather wristband. 

That was the main attraction then, John thought, because it was inside a glass case, and Mycroft once more proceeded to do the same actions which he had at the door, to open the glass case. 

John chuckled loudly again, but was pointedly ignored, as Mycroft picked up the band. Then, gingerly holding the wristband, he showed it to John. "This, Dr Watson, is a vortex manipulator." 

"This is a what manipulator?" John asked his voice incredulous, now sure that Mycroft really had gone mad. 

Mycroft tutted a little at his idiocy as if John should have known what it was, and repeated, "A Vor-tex manipulator"he said slowly, emphasising each syllable."I have, after many efforts, been able to borrow this from a friend." 

 

"The same friend who gave you that password?" John asked, amusement evident in his voice. 

Mycroft only glared in reply and Continued, "She calls herself 'The Doctor' and has previously been of much help in protecting the country. 

"Though she was previously against using it, after much persuasion, she agreed to lend me this, on the condition that I only use it thrice, at the most, and has configured it to be so. She has, helpfully, set the coordinates to the park at approximately the time you met Mike Stamford. 

"There are a few guidelines however" Mycroft had begun to say, when John interrupted him, 

"Mycroft, what are you talking about? The Doctor? Doctor who? You can't possibly be serious about  _ time travelling _ ?" John had grown positively more and more lost as Mycroft's narrative had gone on. 

Mycroft just smiled. "John, I am very serious about all of it. Now, please maintain silence or I will, quite unwillingly, call upon a few guards to help you do as I say." 

A sudden tiredness settled into John, making his shoulders slump slightly, and exhale out loud. He weighed his options. He couldn't get out the room without Mycroft's approval, but Mycroft's men could come in and lead to an embarrassing situation where five men would restrain him and force him to do Mycroft's bidding. 

And so he stood straighter, resigned to do what Mycroft wanted until he could see a way out. 

"Now, as I was saying," Mycroft continued, like he hadn't just threatened John, "a few guidelines. Don't attract too much attention, don't talk to too many people. Here is some money dated 2010, a cap and glasses for a disguise," Mycroft handed John a wallet, presumably full with cash, and a blue plain cap and dark sunglasses. 

He continued. "And until it is absolutely necessary, do not attempt to talk to your own past self. And if the need arises-I do not think that I should have to tell you- but do not tell him anything about the future that's important. Am I understood?" 

John wanted to.say no, that he didn't understand anything, except that Mycroft had lost his mind and that John should leave. But he didn't, and kept his mouth shut. 

Then the older Holmes took his wrist, strapped the wristband onto John's right hand and John saw that under a leather flap on the band, a variety of buttons and screens were lighting up, chiefly among them a big red button. 

"Dr Watson, my best wishes and goodbye for the last time, if all indeed goes according to plan." 

And then, when John stood without doing anything, Mycroft said irritatedly, "Press the red button, John. You can use it thrice, to reach the same time stamp and once you're done, press the 'Reset' button which ought to bring you back to the present." 

Feeling stupid, but complying nonetheless, John pressed the button. 

A mock cry of surprise that John was going to emit was cut short by a genuine one, as an odd sensation pulled his stomach, and John descended into darkness.


	2. If The Universe Fought For Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes back to, and gives "making sure you never met the man you love" a try.

For a split second, there was darkness and John felt as though he was floating in a void, before his feet were suddenly on the ground again and John buckled under the sudden pressure that gravity exerted on him. 

He staggered, and would have fallen on his back, had his hands, which were blindly waving for support,not grasped the bark of a tree. John tried to open his eyes, but the sunlight hit directly on his face, so much more intense than the artificial light in the room he had been in earlier and blinded him. He held up his other arm to shield his eyes, almost dropping the cap, money and glasses that he was given. 

When John could finally stand upright and see everything without squinting, he noticed that he was in a park. And not just any park, it was the park where he had met Mike Stamford. 

"Shit." He cursed under his breath. He really couldn't have been transported to the past, could he? It would be mental if that happened. 

He pinched himself, even slapped himself hard on the face, attracting the attention of a passerby. But it didn't feel like a dream. The sting of the slap and his surroundings seemed real. 

To free his hands, he shoved the money into his jeans pockets, and put on the cap and glasses. 

"I can't have..." he muttered out loud. As his mind reeled with the possibility that he might just have time travelled into the past, he looked around blankly and spotted a man reading a newspaper idly. He almost ran towards him, stopping noisily in front of him, so that the stranger surveyed him with mild curiosity. 

"Umm-" John stammered, trying to feign a casualness that he most certainly did not feel. "Hey, could you please tell me what date is it today?" 

The man looked at the top corner of the newspaper once for confirmation, and replied, "29th Jan, mate. Why?" 

 

John almost tripped, his eyes widening in disbelief. It had most certainly been the 15th of May this morning. 

 

The stranger eyed him suspiciously. 

"No, nothing. " John said nonchalantly, "had to fill up a form, see? And also..."John trailed off, trying to think of a way by which he could say the next sentence without sounding like he had gone off his rocker. "I know I sound mad, but just, please, could you tell me, what year is it?" There was a fake cheerfulness in his voice. 

"You gone cuckoo,mate? Or," the man smirked, "are you a time traveller from the future?" 

John froze and the man in front of him smiled, completely unaware of how close he had hit to the truth. 

"Either way, it's 2010."

 "Yeah!"'John exclaimed, "Yeah, of course it is, ta very much." 

"Cheers." The man still looked suspicious, but dismissed John as the latter walked away. John had no idea where he was walking to, only that he had to move away from this madness.

And so, he walked on further, until something made him stop in his tracks. 

Mike Stamford. 

Sitting on the very same bench he had all those years ago. Wearing the same clothes he had then. 

Somehow, this hit John like a slap and he came back to reality with a jerk. 

Right. He had been sent here on a mission, even if he doubted how real  _ here _ was. 

He had to save Sherlock. 

Sherlock who had gone to the depths of hell to save John Watson, who had almost died at the hands of the maniac Culverton, just to save John. 

Mike was sitting on the bench at a distance from John, looking at nothing in particular, perhaps waiting for his coffee to cool down. Any moment now, John knew, his former self would walk into the scene, and Mike would call him out. 

And so he thought hard, about all the events that had taken place on that fateful day, as if he could ever forget them. 

Every moment was clearly etched in his mind. How could he ever forget the day that changed his life? The day that had taken him to the man he... John took in a deep breath, and let it out, shuddering. 

_ The man he loved.  _

Again, something akin to relief and joy rushed like a wave into him. The confession had made his heart lighter, even if he had only confessed it to himself. 

And Mycroft, John reminded himself. But then, Mycroft had already known. It wasn't so much of a confession as a confirmation of sorts. 

Shaking those thoughts off, John concentrated on the problem at hand. The simplest solution, of course, was to distract Mike, so that he wouldn't call out the past John, and so he and Sherlock would have never met. 

Yes. Time was short at hand as it was. 

So John, standing with his back ramrod straight and in a complete soldier mode, as if stepping into battle, removed his glasses, and adjusted the cap on his head, and walked towards Mike in quick long strides, a hand raised in greeting. 

"Hey, Mike! Mike Stamford!" 

As John drew closer, Mike looked up from his thoughts, his face screwed up in confusion, before some of it eased, a tentative smile on his face. 

"John Watson?"

 "Yeah!" John smiled widely, coming to a stop in front of Mike, who stood up, surprised. 

"Shite you've changed mate! The war's made you look years older." There was, of course, no sneer or jibe in his comment, it was simply an observation and his joy at seeing John was evident. 

"And you haven't changed much, eh?" John said with a mocking smirk. 

"Yeah, I have gotten a bit chubby." Mike's voice had a self depreciating edge to it, but held no shame or discomfort. "Fancy seeing you here. So, what did you get up to in Afghanistan?" 

"Got shot." John echoed, remembering what he had said nine years ago, as they sat down on the bench. It was all slightly amusing, since John had met Mike only a few days ago in the future and here they were talking as though they hadn't seen each other in years.

 But then, in a flash, the smile skidded off his face, his mouth hanging slightly open. 

He had known this was to happen, but he wasn't prepared enough for when it did. 

John Watson walked in front of him, limping, his hand heavily resting on his cane, his expression-- listless, _ dead _ . 

Yes, dead. 

 

It was the only way to describe him. He had the air of a man who had lost the will or strength to live, counting his final days, waiting for it all to end. 

 

The future John closed his eyes in pain, knowing just how true it all was. 

"Hey mate, you okay?" Mike's voice sounded worried and he looked around to find out what had so suddenly displeased John. 

"Wha- yeah." John replied, hurriedly tapping Mike on the shoulder to prevent him from spotting the present John. "I'm completely alright. So what were we talking about again?" 

The rest of the conversation John navigated on autopilot, glancing repeatedly behind Mike, to where his former self's limping form walked on. 

_ That's it _ , John thought.  _ It's done _ . 

All over. Everything that he and Sherlock had done, every aspect of their life together had vanished. All it had taken was to distract Mike. 

The dependence of everything on small events and instances suddenly struck John. The term 'The Butterfly Effect' floated into his mind, but it was quickly overridden by a bout of pain. 

The knowledge that every part of the friendship and love, at least on John's side, had been written out of existence hurt. His heart suddenly ached, longed for Sherlock. For one more brilliant deduction, for one more smile that he gave sometimes to John- the ones only for him, for one more 'John' in his voice, in the way it sounded like an endearment. 

One more. _ One more _ . 

Suddenly, talking to Mike became too painful. So he made his excuses hastily, only somewhat replying to Mike's proposal of meeting again. 

Mike looked a bit hurt, but as if sensing John's grief, did not say anything. 

John walked, with no particular destination in mind than away from everyone, mostly Mike. He just wanted to be another stranger amidst the crowd. 

And so he walked on, till the park's exit, when he abruptly stopped, seeing his present self walking ahead of him. 

On an impulse, he followed his past self out of the park, when something happened. 

A car in front of them halted abruptly, and a bike behind it, going in full speed crashed into it, the rider flung from his position, into the air, and landing with a sickening crack. 

Everything was dead still for a moment, and then the chaos ensued. Someone screamed, people collected all around the body, no one quite sure of what to do. The accident had temporarily paralysed their thinking. 

Except of course, two men.

Both of the John Watson's hurried forwards, the one belonging to the future stopping when he saw the present John abandon his limp and move forward to help the bleeding man. He held his cane from the middle in one hand, and dialed for the hospital from his phone with the other. Then, he cleared off the crowd, and putting the cane and phone aside, administered whatever first aid he could. 

Blood was issuing fast and thick from the wounds on the man's arms and side of the head- which had taken most of the impact, and both the Johns prayed silently for his life. In less than ten minutes, an ambulance from St Bart's arrived, being relatively near to the park, and no one questioned John's authority, as he helped the medical team put the man's body into the ambulance, and accompany them to the hospital. 

Future John expected this to be the result of a "John Watson of Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.." introduction. Or perhaps the sheer competence and calm that he had seemed to radiate. 

John Watson wasn't a vain man, but seeing himself work so competently, he felt a sliver of pride. 

Then, realising that the present John was gone, his future self cursed under his breath, sticking his hand out to hail a cab. 

Once he got in the cab, he was all jangled nerves, and convinced that he had gotten the slowest driver in London. His feet tapping incessantly on the cab floor, his hands constantly moving to either right his cap, to scratch an imaginary itch, or to pick at the skin on his face. 

When he finally reached St Bart's, he flung open the cab door and almost threw the cash at the cabbie, hurriedly telling him to keep the change as he closed the door a little too loudly. 

Once inside, he searched for himself, a thing he wasn't used to doing, amidst the hospital crowd. 

There he was. 

The present John was wheeling the injured man a little, telling something to a nurse beside him and then stopping behind, to let the hospital staff do their work. His phone and cane were on a counter nearby. 

Then, with no work to occupy him, his limp returned, and he moved towards the counter, reaching out for his cane. He grabbed it and steadied himself, trying to take deep breaths and calm himself. 

Relaxing, the John Watson of the future stole a look at the rest of the hospital and did a double take.

 

Sherlock Holmes stood at a distance of a few feet from him, staring intently at his past self. He watched as Sherlock watched John of the present with an increasing interest. 

_ Shit! _ John from future thought, it hadn't even occurred to him that John and Sherlock would be in the same building. He hoped that Sherlock's interest would only be mild and would quickly find another subject. 

And then someone called the present John, a member of the medical faculty, perhaps to ask John what he had seen. Walking towards her, John forgot about his phone, half of the attention on the limp that had returned with renewed vigour. 

And so the future John watched, helpless, as Sherlock picked up the phone, walking towards his past self, waiting as John talked to the woman, to return the item. 

Future John walked nearer to the three of them to hear their conversation better and removed his phone, pretending to text while listening in. 

The woman smiled at the present John in thanks and left. John turned back, towards Sherlock, who had been standing behind him, clearly showing that John had better finish his ongoing conversation before coming to Sherlock. 

"Yeah?" The present John asked. 

"Your phone, you forgot it there." Sherlock motioned towards the counter. 

Comprehension sharpened John's features and he replied gratefully, "Ta mate! I'm sorry, I had forgotten about the phone." He gave a sheepish smile. 

"No problem." Sherlock replied with a brisk nod."Also, Afghanistan or Iraq?"' 

Both John's stopped in their tracks simultaneously on hearing the words. 

Present John was confused and became alert. "Sorry, how did you know?" 

For future John, those words were the last straw. Somehow, he sensed it, they meant that he had failed in keeping them apart. But still interested as to how a conversation between two strangers could evolve to flat sharing without the catalyst Mike Stamford, he did not walk away, listening in. 

"Which was it, tell me first." Sherlock replied demandingly.

"Um. Afghanistan, but how did you know?" 

"Oh, I also know that you're an army doctor, recently invalided from Afghanistan due to a shoulder wound, with a limp which I'm afraid  _ is  _ psychosomatic, like your therapist says. I also know you have a brother whom you won't go to, to seek help, probably because you disapprove of his drinking habits, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife." 

Sherlock stopped after having talked at length, but wasn't visibly out of air. The present John on the other hand was completely perplexed, and shifted into a defensive stance. "What-- how do you know?" 

Sherlock smiled taking in John's posture and then began. 

"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. The conversation as you entered the room - said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists - you've been abroad but not sunbathing. 

"The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic - wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq." 

Some of the confusion cleared from John's face," You said I had a therapist." 

"You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother. Your phone - it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But everything about your appearance suggest that you put need over want and are not susceptible to self-indulgence. It's a gift, then. 

"Scratches - not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man standing next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already." 

And though future John couldn't see it, he remembered the engraving clearly as Sherlock showed it to the present John. 

"The engraving?" 

"Harry Watson - clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father - this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but it is unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. 

"Now, Clara - who's Clara? Three kisses says romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must've given it to him recently - this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then - six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it - he left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch.” 

John looked more and more amazed. "How can you  _ possibly  _ know about the drinking?" 

Sherlock smirked at John's bafflement. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection - tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in and charge but his hands are shaky. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. " 

John's future self tried to suppress the proud smile that was attempting to take over his features, seeing as there really was no reason he should be proud. 

The other John just stared at Sherlock, blinking rapidly and then a huge smile spread across his features. "That's fantastic!" 

Sherlock took a step back, as if genuinely confused, his eyebrows knitted together, a habit that this John would soon come to love. "You really think so?" 

John appeared just as confused at Sherlock's reaction. "Yes. Of course, it's fantastic. It's brilliant!" 

"Oh." Sherlock muttered, speechless for a second, before a beautiful smile crossed his lips. "And hi, I'm Sherlock Holmes." 

John chuckled at the fact that they hadn't introduced themselves yet. "And I suppose you already know? I'm John Watson." 

"Well I did not know that, but now I do. So, did I get anything wrong?" 

There was a hint of playfulness in John's expression as he said, "No, not really. I mean I did study here at Bart's and I am an army doctor and I did get invalided from Afghanistan due to a shoulder wound. Is my limp really psychosomatic?" He looked at Sherlock in query. 

"It is indeed." Sherlock said in a matter-of-fact voice. 

"Okay. So you got that right. You were also right about the phone, and drinking habits and the wife. Except," John paused treacherously, and Sherlock's eyes widened at the suggestion that he might have been wrong. 

"Harry's short for Harriet."

"There's always something!" Sherlock said in frustration punching the air. 

John laughed, but there was no trace of malice or mockery in it. The were now walking towards the entrance of Bart's and John's future counterpart walked behind them now, struggling a bit to listen to their conversation. 

As the duo exited the hospital, both of them turned to leave in opposite directions, before noticing the other going in the other direction. 

"Oh, so, um, going home?" Sherlock asked, the slightest of hope evident in his voice that John might just stay. 

"Err, yeah." John replied, wanting to stay too, but not sure if it would be welcomed. 

"Where do you stay?" This was clearly an attempt to prolong their meeting. 

"There's just this flat, um, that way...", John pointed towards the route he was going, trailling off. His hand reached out to run on his neck in embarrassment. 

"Oh, I see... " Sherlock said, surveying every tell in John's body. "Must be a small flat yes? After all, army pension is not much. You'd want a bigger flat, but you'll need a flatmate to afford it." Sherlock's smile widened. 

Again, somehow, John was not affronted by this. Instead, he just laughed in embarrassment and some fascination. "Yeah." 

"Then.. " Sherlock was now positively beaming, "I know just the place for you." 

The future John, standing a few feet away, had been watching all of this with increasing dismay and ...was it really relief? 

Relief that it hadn't been so easy to separate them, and the smallest of hope, that maybe, only maybe, the universe was fighting to keep them together. 

No, John threw the thought away. He had come here- sent here really- for a purpose. He had to keep Sherlock and him apart. 

Knowing that this chance was a lost cause, He watched as the limping man and his companion walked away from St Bart's. A moment later he heard John exclaim, "You know Mike Stamford! He was a friend of mine from uni!" ,and thought that that was going to end up in awkward confusion when the present John meet Mike. 

\-----

John sat on the park bench where he had met Mike, thinking about his next plan of action. Obviously he'd have to distract Mike first.  _ Then _ , John thought,  _ maybe distract his past self from going to Bart's? _

_ No _ , the answer came immediately. If it hadn't been for John, the bloke who got injured would have probably died. John would have to go to Bart's. 

And then, the answer presented itself to him. 

Distract Sherlock Holmes from coming downstairs. 

Nodding his head in determination, John almost pressed the button again to be off, but the same thought that had plagued him when he was talking to Mike occurred to him. 

When he pressed the reset button, once he had done his job, Sherlock Holmes would forever and always be erased out of John Watson's memories. Perhaps he would read of Sherlock in the newspapers when he solved crimes and such, but never as the man John now knew him to be. He would never know what living with Sherlock Holmes would be like. 

This thought ached his heart so badly, that John thought someone had physically reached out into his chest and strangled his heart. 

He leaned back onto the bench, trying to stifle the tears that threatened to come hot and fast.He stretched out his left palm on his thighs  and suddenly felt a solid weight in his jeans pockets. 

_ Oh _ , John thought,  _ my phone _ . He had completely forgotten about it. He took it out and switched it on. His, Sherlock's and Rosie's selfie lighting up the screen. John's breath caught in his throat as he looked at the smiling faces of the three of them. 

They looked so happy. 

Content, like there was no other place they would have rather been. Rosie was smiling too, but she wasn't looking at the camera. She was looking up and John and Sherlock, her eyes gleaming with joy. 

_ Where had things gone so wrong? _ John wondered, and not for the first time, desperately wished that they had talked. He had a sudden urge to call Sherlock, and to apologise, to beg  him to stay in his and Rosie's life. 

To try again- all of it. 

But as he tore his eyes away from the lock screen, John noticed that there was no signal. 

Of course, John sighed, mobile phones weren't adapted to call into the future or to time travel. 

And then, as he was aimlessly scrolling through the apps on his home screen, one of them caught his interest. 

'Voice Recorder'. 

He looked at it. 

Then opened the app. He stared at it for a few seconds and suddenly he was staring at his own reflection in it. He could see the tears shining on his cheeks. Taking a deep breath, he pressed 'start' and talked until his throat was parched and voice rough with use. 

When he finished, he had made one of the two recordings that would save him when the time came. 

Then, feeling considerably better, his heart lighter, he stood up, preparing himself, planting his feet firmly on the ground. He pressed the red button and once more fell into darkness. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, this is first try that John gives.  
> And yes I copy pasted the deductions from the show, simply because I feel he would have said them the EXACT same way???
> 
> Anyways, two more chances to go. Maybe he won't need all of them, but the fic name IS "third times a charm" so...
> 
> As always, please give kudos and comment if you like it!!


	3. Before We Happened To Each Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries, a second time, the approach of distracting Sherlock, and learns more about the man he was before he met John.

This time when the darkness gave way to blinding sunlight, John was prepared. While he still stumbled, he did not completely lose his balance, and in a minute or two, he was ready for action.   
He walked swiftly to the spot where he knew Mike Stamford was sitting, and waved a hand in greeting.   
"Mike! Mike Stamford!"   
Minutes later when Present John walked by, he was ready, and quickly saying farewell to Mike, a lot more elegant and friendly in its nature than the previous one, he rushed to follow his past self.   
Then, once he saw the accident occur in front of him. Satisfied, he waved a taxi and went to St Bart's.   
He wasted no time in going upstairs, to the lab where Sherlock would be conducting an experiment, ultimately incriminating the brother with the green ladder.   
He paused before opening the door to the lab, revising, in his mind, the reasons he was here, the 'here' not just the lab, but the time he was in, where he had been transported, and the three chances he'd been given.   
He once again adjusted his glasses and cap, a disguise he hadn't removed simply because it felt wrong, somehow, that Sherlock should see his face properly, that he'd know that it was John here, despite the fact that Sherlock did not know who he was yet.   
"Right." He muttered.   
He pushed open the doors, walking into the lab, trying not to fidget, his entire body shifting to battlefield mode. Sherlock looked up from the petri dish he was examining and experimenting on. His attention snapped onto John and the latter felt exposed.   
Naked.   
As if Sherlock would know the truth about him, about them. He felt as he did back at the lab all those years ago, stripped to the soul, yet fascinated by the man in front of him. 

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, an eyebrow arched in disdain, as if John had made a mistake by breathing the same air as him.   
Since John couldn't muster up a name that wasn't his or incriminating, he said, trying to be teasing, at ease, "I suppose you'd have already deduced it." He tried to smile.   
"No," Sherlock said, the slightest of annoyance evident in his voice, as if he should have been able to deduce it by sight alone "But I know that you're a doctor, with some military career in the past,which gave you a shoulder wound-- right one, no left-- you live with a child, most likely a daughter and your husband and worst of all, work for Mycroft."   
Of course, for John, all the deductions had lost their relevance in the face of one of them.   
"Wait, what? Husband? I don't have a husband"   
"Boyfriend then."   
"No. Why would you say that?" John felt exasperated by this. From the moment he met Sherlock everyone had assumed they were together and now John had to listen to Sherlock make the same statement himself.  
"Well you live with another man and are presumably raising a child with him, you are obviously attracted to him and he returns the emotions, from what I can see. Therefore I assumed that you are in a relationship, though the length of it and the intensity of your emotions suggested married."   
"No. We're just -- friends." John gulped, a bit in disbelief. Had Sherlock just suggested that his future self may also be attracted to him? Of course not. He couldn't be, Sherlock didn't feel things like that.   
"Fine." Sherlock's interest had shifted back to the petri dish, and he was about to add a chemical to it. "So why did Mycroft send you here?" His voice was heavy with derision.   
"To err-- check on you."' John fumbled a bit before solidifying his certainty. "I'm here to check on you." It wasn't much, but he hoped it was enough.   
"Yes, obviously, because I'm a five year old child, who needs constant inspection." Sherlock replied, not bothering to hide his exasperation.   
"No I mean I'm here to check if you're, you know, clean."   
This seemed to have hit a nerve somewhere, because Sherlock's neck swerved towards John, defiance etched into his features, plain as daylight. "Again, I'm not a five year old, I am capable of making my own decisions, and if I decide to become unclean, there is nothing that Mycroft can do to prevent it. I have done so before, and as he's already remarked 'rehab doesn't have much of an impression on me'. So tell Mycroft to piss off."   
There was a certain smugness on Sherlock's face, in light of all his victories over Mycroft. He didn't spare a second glance at John, as if he was merely an object that was transmitting the message to Mycroft, directing his rage not at John, but beyond him, to where Mycroft lay listening.   
John's features contorted in concern. "No Sherlock! You can't use again. I mean, Lestrade's given you a case, why do you need drugs for stimulation?" John's voice, though level in its own way, was somewhat disbelieving at its edges, as if what Sherlock had said defied some basic laws of the universe.   
Sherlock looked at John, really looked at him, as if surprised at his independent thought and emotion. "Mycroft cannot stop me if I want to, regardless of a case. There is nothing that he can say or do to change my mind." There was still a rebellious tinge to it, but an overall sense of control had been established over his syllables.   
But I could, John thought, still surprised at the man he saw in front of him, the Sherlock before he'd met John.   
I could make you stop using and you listened to me.   
But John hadn't realised, at least not yet, that the connection that they'd shared was not present now, at least it wasn't mutual.   
"Please don't use, Sherlock. Try, at least, to let go of it." There was a pleading edge to his tone though he'd not surrendered the calm in his voice. He walked closer to Sherlock, only a few steps, to emphasize his point. There was now a distance of one feet separating them.   
Sherlock cocked his head to one side, not as much quizzically as it was scrutinizing and John shifted a bit, uncomfortable, but making a pretty good show of being, largely, at ease.   
"What does it matter to you?" It was a cold and curious question, not yet progressed to the point where he could understand the depth and genuineness of John's concern.   
When John only cleared his throat, his discomfort evident in his eyes and their skittering gaze, Sherlock stood up, a bit more at his guard as John began to unfold in front of him.   
"You care. You really do care, not just as Mycroft's employee, you have a personal interest in my welfare. Why?"   
Then his lips curved into a soft "oh" as his brows, which had progressively knit closer, now unfurled a little.   
"How long have you been keeping a watch on me?"   
John opened his mouth to answer, found that 'nine years' though correct was hardly one by which either of them would be comforted, and settled for, "A while."   
Sherlock knitted his eyebrows together angrily and stepped into John's personal space, in a bid to intimidate him.   
John, however, was used to his tactics and did not flinch a muscle.   
Frustrated even more, Sherlock finally resorted to voicing his questions. "Why are you so different? The others, they are detached, impersonal, the way Mycroft's people always are, addressing me as 'Mr Holmes'. They never retaliate against my statements or plead for my welfare. You, however, you seem like you don't work for Mycroft and yet. Yet there's clear evidence to the contrary. Who are you? And why do you care?"

He kept repeating the question, because it was not possible. It seemed to Sherlock, for a person to care so much about his well being or his drug abuse, even more confusing by the fact that he'd never met the man.   
It seemed as though, no matter what universe or branch of reality, John Watson would always be a puzzle for Sherlock.   
John had now abandoned whatever detached facade he had, and spoke with considerable emotion. "It doesn't matter who I am. As to why I care? Sherlock, because you are brilliant! Because you're a mad genius who can tell everything about me from one look, because you're the world's only consulting detective and you help Lestrade without wanting any credit or money.   
"You help people simply because you can and because you want to.And that makes you a better man than most people around here. So don't waste all of that on getting high." John finished, his eyes moist, his left hand in a continuous clenching and unclenching episode, and his left leg feeling slightly heavy.   
He could imagine Sherlock in a dark dump somewhere, high on drugs, a list loosely hanging from his fingertips.   
The Sherlock who'd turned up at the therapists doorstep, saying to him, ' and I'm never climbing out.' He didn't want to think it could become reality again.   
Sherlock, in front of him, was silent, looking at John with shock.   
"You- you really think so?" His voice had a tinge of fear in it, but he looked remarkably unaffected, though John knew where to look for the signs, and saw that Sherlock was surprised that anyone could consider him to be a good man.   
"Yes." John said, smiling just a little, his entire expression soldered back to calmness.   
"Oh."   
There was such wonder in the gaze Sherlock cast upon John, but it was only momentary, before the impressive facade fit back into place. "How much longer has Mycroft asked you to spy on me?"   
John hadn't thought of that, but this time a ready excuse came to his mind, maybe because it wasn't that much of a lie. "Not much longer actually, I'm going to be sent on a mission far away, for a long time."   
"I see," there was only a hint of disappointment in his voice, before he continued, "You're being sent far away? Far away from him too, seeing as you're so distressed about it."   
John smiled at the accuracy of Sherlock's deduction, hitting the mark amidst all his lies.   
"Yes, away from him."  
He couldn't help staring at this Sherlock, the man before John knew him, still in danger of succumbing to the high and so brilliant it hurt. He feared that without he himself being there for him, Sherlock would once again reach for the syringe, but he hoped, however unlikely it was, that his speech would help him.   
It was a laughable idea, but given what he'd come here to do, it was the most he could do.   
All the reasons he had to separate them both were slowly disintegrating to irrelevance, and John was beginning to want to fuck all of it and this brought on an onslaught of emotions.   
Years of living with Sherlock and their lack of personal space had made touching him - nothing sexual, just small touches to affirm their support or agreement- an instinct and knowing Sherlock took comfort in them made it a habit.   
John had to restrain himself from taking the man in front of him into his arms, to beg for forgiveness and return things to normal. But this Sherlock did not even know John's name.   
And that hurt.   
A reminder of what would happen once John was back in the future.   
When him emotions threatened to collapse on him, he decided to leave and said abruptly to Sherlock, "Um I should get going. Bye."   
He didn't stop to wait for Sherlock to reply and left the lab, only hearing an echo of the farewell Sherlock spoke.   
John walked-no- ran, down to the entrance, wanting to be the sole witness to the breakdown that seemed imminent.   
Without meaning to, John looked for his past self on the busy hospital floor, and when he found him exiting the premises, he did nothing to stop him and followed him out. He looked at the limping weary form in front of him and then looked away.   
He walked on without knowing where he was going, and when he stopped to see his location- his eyes rimmed red and slight tremors running down his body- he found himself at Baker Street.   
"Shit." He cursed. He couldn't just walk inside and yet he wanted to be near his home, their home, as his knees threatened to give away.   
He couldn't go inside, so he went to an alleyway near it, which was narrow and deserted, sitting on the ground and leaning against the building of Baker Street.   
It was done.   
"Mission accomplished" John said to himself in a weak laugh, before a curse escaped his lips and he held his head in his hands.   
The sinking feeling that he'd done something wrong wouldn't evade him no matter how much he tried to rationalise it away.   
But somehow, before he broke down completely, he pulled himself together, reminding himself that what had happened had happened and that he couldn't do anything to change it.   
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson didn't know and would never know each other.   
He looked at the 'Vortex Manipulator' as Mycroft had called it, strapped to his wrist and at the button that read 'Reset', a promise to take him to the future that awaited him, wherever it might be.   
Press that, John thought, and all the pain would be over. Press that and he would never know what he'd lost.   
Press that, a voice in his head said, and you'll never know the joy that he brought into your life.   
Press that and you wouldn't remember how much you loved him.   
John wanted to vomit at the thought of it.   
He took in a deep breath, his knees folding up and his arms wrapped around them, his body exhausted, even scared, wanting protection and release from all the pressure.   
And yet John Watson, among his many qualities, was a man who could be relied upon in times of stress. He was calm, reassuring to those patients whom he treated and dangerous to those who threatened to harm.   
And so, he reached a truce with himself, taking out his phone from the jeans pocket and switching it on. Sherlock's, Rosie's and his own face smiling on the screen. His thumb hovered longingly over the face of his flatmate and his daughter.   
Rosie.   
It hit him like a jolt of lightning.   
Changing the past would affect the future. Would his and Mary's relationship and as a consequence, Rosie's existence vanish from the face of the earth?   
Before, he'd waved the thought away by saying that this would only affect his and Sherlock's relationship and nothing else. After all, if he and Mary were meant to be, they would.   
But now that he thought hard about it, he realised that it might not be the case. There was a chance that he'd never meet Mary in the new future.   
And yet, a voice in his head said, you and Sherlock met each other even when there was no Mike, even when you tried to prevent it.   
That was different, was the answer ready in John's mind.   
No.  
He loved Mary, it wasn't that he didn't. It's just that--   
John's shoulders sagged under the weight of his current circumstance, and he wanted to stop all of it by the sheer intensity of his desire to do so.   
It doesn't matter, he realised, the damage was done. He couldn't go and undo it.   
Except. There was still one more trip possible to the morning that had just passed.   
No. No. No  
.He repeated to himself, like the word was a spell that would make things easier to understand, easier to decide upon. He had made a choice when he called out to Mike Stamford. When he'd distracted Sherlock. When he'd said goodbye.   
When he'd chosen to hurt Sherlock by saying what he had, back at the flat.   
'I wish I'd never met you.'  
He regretted ever saying it, regretted not explaining what he'd meant, regretted, John realized, a lot of things.   
None of them mattered now.   
He had to believe that Rosie would be safe and that she would exist. Because she had to. There were only two people that John truly loved in his whole world and he couldn't bear to lose both of them.   
Like a man walking to his death sentence, John pushed his body up to stand, and then swaying on his feet, sat back down again.   
Again the urge seized him like it had in the park, a desire to let out all of his anguish, and he opened the voice recording application in his mobile phone.   
The button lay there in invitation and John pressed it.   
Then, when the timer started, John found out that he didn't know what to say.   
It was obvious he should continue from where his first recording had stopped, but he had so much to say, the first recording seemed inadequately short and the second too long to be possible.   
This is like a suicide note, he realised.  
Before his existence as it was, was erased from the canvas of the universe, he had one final chance to record whatever he thought was relevant. Whatever that had to be preserved.   
And so John talked and talked and talked, not stopping even after he was out of breath and his mouth dry from use and tears streaming down his cheeks.   
And then, when he couldn't speak anymore, he found the strength for one more sentence. His confession.   
One that he could shout from the rooftops now. His voice was scratchy and his hands shaky, when he issued out four more words.   
"I love you, Sherlock."   
His fingers hit the stop button and he relaxed fully into the wall behind him, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.   
Utterly devoid of energy, determination, or any form of willpower, he lay there a few more minutes before it occurred to him that his phone should carry no mark of his having used it.   
So he quickly sat up and deleted all his contacts, emails, messages, songs and photos, pausing only at his two recordings, his thumb hovering over the screen, lit up a pale blue in its light.   
No, he decided, this was one thing that would remain. He didn't know why. But it was imperative to some part of his consciousness.   
Plus, he'd not mentioned Sherlock's name or his or anyone's name in the whole of it, talking about Sherlock only as 'He' and the rest of it in terms only someone who knew them already would understand.   
Except at the end, he'd used Sherlock's name, but John couldn't bring himself to change that.   
Besides how could that one tiny detail matter? He thought.   
And oh how wrong he was.   
Finally, having recovered enough to stand up, John got back on his feet, leaning on the wall a bit, then, shaking himself vigorously, he proceeded towards the door of 221 Baker Street, stopping in front of it.   
Then he ascended the small flight of steps and stood still for a few seconds before it.   
He reached out to graze his fingers against the cool metal of the knocker and the rectangular plate that had in it engraved the letters “221B” that John called 'home' in his head. His touch was reverent, trying to map it out under his touch and preserve in his memory, even though soon he'd remember none of it. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the scent of the wood, the air around him and London in general- the place that both he and Sherlock loved.   
Then, with moisture prickling his eyes, he opened them, and brought his right wrist up, surveying the leather band.  
He hadn't even looked at it properly. He hadn't even thought about it properly.   
Humans could finally time travel and John hadn't given it a second fucking thought.   
His laughter was contained at first, but then he burst into a fit of giggles, marvelling at the ridiculousness of the situation.   
Only with Sherlock, John thought, could such things even happen. Only he could eclipse everything else.   
Then, sobering up, he laid his finger on the button, the name of the man he loved beginning to take shape on his lips in farwell.   
Before he could even finish saying it completely, however, the darkness groped at him and sent him into oblivion.   
When he finally came to, he found himself in a large room, his vision hazy and his mind foggy, his mouth completing the word he'd lost halfway through.   
But even as he planted himself on solid ground, his feet gave away, particularly his left one, and he hit the floor with a thud.   
His psychosomatic limp had returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wellll the third chapter is up!!!!!  
> Yes John's limps returned .  
> It's a sad chapter.....  
> But it will get better????  
> Idk. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for commenting and giving kudos it's really helped me continue. <3


	4. To Know A World Without You In It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up into a world without any memory of his time with Sherlock.

When John came to, his vision not quite clear yet, a familiar face hovered above him and he smiled weakly when a voice issued "Are you okay?" 

"Sarah." He croaked, propping himself up with his arms. 

His head gave a painful lurch, but he ignored it, trying to remember what had happened. He only remembered walking towards the door of the room to go out to call Sarah and then there was a wave of pain that had almost rendered him unconscious. Then there was blackness. 

"What happened?" He murmured, as Sarah sat beside him. 

"Well I don't really know. I heard you cry in pain and when I came in, you staggered, and said something like 'Errlock' and then fell down.”

Her eyebrows were creased in concern and she asked him, "Do you mind if I check you up?" 

When he nodded his consent, she placed her fingers on his wrist, noting his pulse and checked if his pupils were working like they should, assessing his vitals and clarity of mind. 

There was a certain tenderness in her movements, but even as she looked up at him from her assessment, their faces only inches apart, John saw that there was no sign of desire in her eyes, nor any pooling in his heart.

The desire, John thought with a pang, had died out a long time ago. 

"Yeah, you seem good." Sarah gave her approval and nodded. She moved away from him, amusement apparent in her small smile. "So when did you get the time to shave and when did you buy these clothes? I haven't seen you wear them before and I've been seeing you for eight years." 

"What?" John looked at her in confusion, wondering if he still hadn't come to his senses. "What are you talking about?" 

"Your moustache," Sarah replied a little taken aback, "you've shaved it off." 

John reached up to his face, expecting the smooth array of hair above his lips lips, but instead his fingers lingered over hairless, shaved skin. "I- I don't remember doing this." 

Then he looked down at his clothes. Again, he started in surprise, completely sure that it was a blue checked shirt and not this jumper or his jacket that he was wearing in the morning. "I don't remember putting them on either." 

Worry creasing her features, Sarah once again looked to check the head injury. "It's not bad enough to have affected your memory. Are you sure you're fine?" 

John put his arms up, signalling Sarah to stop, racking his brain hard for the few minutes that had gone missing. "Yeah, I'm fine. Don't worry, it'll probably all come back to me soon." 

He felt a dull throb in his head and a weakness in his bones and Sarah probably sensed it, because told him she would bring him a cup of tea to ease him. She held his hand briefly in support, their wedding rings hitting each other, the metals making a soft clang, and then impressing upon John the coolness of Sarah's ring as it brushed past his skin. 

Once Sarah had left the room, John's hands made their way to his head, trying to feel the injury, when he noticed a leather wristband on his right hand. Sliding his jacket sleeve up to reveal it fully, John looked at the various buttons and lights, and the small screen at the centre of it. 

It showed the date as '29/01/2010' and the time as '10:20'.

Puzzled, he checked the date again. That was years ago. The time was also wrong, hours behind the evening that currently swept over London. 

A possibility crept into John's mind, that it was some sort of digital watch which had malfunctioned, showing the wrong date. He was about to turn the idea in his head, trying to understand why all of this was in his possession, when he heard Sarah's footsteps and pulled the sleeve down, trying to hide the watch on impulse. 

It was ridiculous, really, because there was no reason to hide it, Sarah's intelligence would probably prove to be an ally in the situation, and yet John felt secretive about it. 

Maybe the fall had done something to do with his head after all. 

She set the cup of tea down beside the bed in the table and asked John once again if he was okay. "Yeah, I think I'm good," he replied, "I think I just need some sleep." 

"Alright. I'm just worried that you can't remember doing all of this" Sarah replied, gesturing to his altered attire," but I think that it's a good idea to lie down a bit." She smiled at him, but the concern hadn't completely vanished from her eyes. "I need to go for the evening shift at the clinic, will you be fine?" 

John jumped at the opportunity. "Yeah I'll be fine. Don't worry. If I feel like something is wrong, I’ll ring you up or you know," he said good naturedly, "solve it myself. I'm a doctor too remember?" 

"Yes," Sarah sighed in defeat, "You're right. I'm worrying too much, you only fell and you're a grown adult. Plus," she added with a smile, "You're a doctor too." 

John noticed that there was a tiredness in her smile. She always looked tired these days. 

Come or think of it,so did he. 

 

They were both tired, bored of the way things were going on. Of each other too, John realized. The passion had fizzled out and whatever love remained was now felt in a way that best friends probably do, despite the rings on their hands. 

Perhaps this was a reason to separate, or less desirably, to cheat, since they did not have any children or any other incentive to keep them together. They had tried to have babies, for a.year after their marriage, but nothing happened and they had eventually given up. 

But, John realized, they were too tired of love or passion itself, having observed how fickle it had been between them, and expecting everyone else to be the same.They wouldn't get a divorce or cheat, they would just let things be the way they were, enjoying their companionship, even while they longed for something more. 

After many reassurances and promises to text her if anything felt off, John finally convinced Sarah to go to the clinic. She kissed John's forehead and left the room, waving her hand in farewell. 

A minute later, John heard the front door close, and, after a moment's hesitation, sat up properly, trying to make out what other changes he'd undergone during his memory lapse. He stood up, pain running in waves in his leg, before grabbing the cane Sarah had left beside him and walking to the mirror. 

He stopped short on seeing his reflection, temporarily paralyzed by the difference in him. Yes, the difference was brought out most clearly in the lack of a mustache and the change in style, but there were subtler things and John's hand reached up to touch them. The bags under his eyes were still present, more a gift from Afghanistan than anything else, but they didn't seem heavy from nightmares or unwelcome thoughts. They seemed to be born of something _ happier _ . 

Yes it did seem ridiculous that he should be able to glean that from his face but it was what he felt.His face was still wrinkled, but the laugh lines were etched deeper than the frown lines and creases. There was also the vitality of not a well worn, but a well used body, kept sturdy by regular exercise. 

The man in the mirror was him, there was no doubt about it, but he was, John was convinced, a man leading a different life, not the one John was in. 

He tore his eyes away from the reflection, checking for other items he may have, going through the series of jacket pockets and the ones in the trouser. 

The discovery of a cap and dark sunglasses gave his frisking a pause and he scanned both of them for signs of the identity of their owner, a sigh of frustration escaping his lips when he found none. 

As he stretched his torso to ease his sore muscles, he felt a weight in one of his jacket pockets. 

Reaching out to retrieve the object, his fingers brushed over cold metal as he removed a phone from the jacket, a phone that was most certainly not his. 

_ What is happening?  _ John wondered in disbelief. He didn't understand why he had so many things that weren't his on him or why he couldn't remember why he'd fallen or what he was trying to say when he fell. 'Errlock', he pondered. There really wasn't a word that he knew that started that way. Perhaps, John thought, he was trying to say that something was to be locked. 

That seemed like the most likely conclusion, and John tried to think along that line, as he sat down on the bed. He examined the phone, going through the contacts, emails, texts and even photos to find out the identity of the owner. 

The entire phone was wiped clean, he observed. He set the phone aside with a sigh, thinking about what the fuck was happening to him. 

Was he going crazy?

Had the fall affected him so badly that he was experiencing hallucinations? 

John had his head held in his hands when it occurred to him that he hadn't checked the music gallery. With a chuckle he thought that figuring out the bloke's music taste might help him find out who he was, and John opened the application, surprised when he found it empty but for two audio clips that seemed to be voice recordings.

With eyebrows raised in disbelief, John clicked on the first recording, increasing the volume to maximum. 

There was a background static for the first few minutes, and then a voice issued from the phone speakers. 

" _ He knew. From the moment I walked in, he knew everything. _ ”

The rest of it was not heard by John, who had frozen, the phone shaking in his hand, and the urge to flex his hand increasing every second. 

It was John. 

The voice that spoke was John. 

Not believing his ears, he heard the recording again, barely registering any words, only the voice. It was undeniably, his. Even though he'd never spoken any of this. 

He replayed the clip, listening to the voice, a string of swear words running down from his mouth.This scenario was increasingly getting ridiculous in a way that dreams sometimes are, and John pinched his arm to ascertain whether or not it was one. 

"It's not a dream is it? Shit." John flexed his hands and rubbed at his neck, almost begging for it all to make some sense. 

When no epiphany made its way into his consciousness, he gave up and decided to listen to the recordings. He, as it was, didn't have anything to do and Sarah would be away for quite some time. Plus,.now that he'd heard that, sleep would be far away from his clutches. 

He pressed play, as the audio started, listening to it intently this time. 

 

 _"He knew. From the moment I walked in, he knew everything."_ There was a pause. _"He knew I was in Afghanistan, he knew I was an army doctor, he knew about the limp, and he even knew about Harry and Clara. When I asked him how, he said he knew it from my tan lines and the scratches on my phone._

_ "And fuck, it was fantastic. I told him so,"  _  the voice huffed a laugh, _ "And he was genuinely surprised. He said people usually told him to piss off."  _ Fondness dripped from his tone when he continued. 

_ "And he said he had a flat and when we went to see it, the twat had already moved in, the whole place was a mess. And then he asked me if I wanted to come along to look at a crime scene-- a fucking crime scene. So of course I said yes."  _

And then the John in the phone told the John outside it all about the body, the serial killings and their waiting at a restaurant. 

_ "And then the bastard. He said we had to chase the killer, and so of course I forgot all about my cane and ran after him, and when we ended up back at the flat, I asked him what we'd done all of it for, since we didn't find the killer in the cab we were chasing.  _

_ "And,"  _ Phone John's voice held great fascination, " _ he told me it was to prove a point.' He said that I would take the flat, and I was going to, but I pretended I wasn't, saying "who says I will?'. He smiled and replied, 'says the man at the door'. I didn't understand, but then the restaurant owner rang the bell. To give me back my cane. Because I'd forgotten all about it, and the limp."  _ John laughed, but it was punctuated by little sniffles and it.became apparent that he was crying a little. 

The John holding the phone in his hand sat there with complete disbelief. He looked down at the cane that was now lying beside his bed, wondering what it would be like to not need it. Yes he'd been without it for most of his life, but it had been nine years since he had been using it and he didn't remember what it was like before. 

And then the recording continued, and John in the phone talked all about their investigation, and how Sherlock had run off and how John had gone looking for him.  _ "And I shouted out his name, but he was a building away, so obviously he couldn't hear me. But I could see him and he was about to take the fucking pill. God I wanted to strangle him then."  _

Then he paused, as if in thought, _ "I don't know why I did it then. But I knew inside me that I had to protect this man, who had, in the course of only a day, turned my life around." _ John hadn't tried to hide his admiration as he said it. _ "So I took out my gun and shot the cabbie."  _

There was a pause, during which, the listener tried to process his shock. It wasn't that he couldn't have shot the cabbie. He was a bloody soldier, for Christ sake. It was just that he'd only known the man whom he'd saved for one day and yet there had been no hesitation. 

John thought of the gun that lay in his closet, gathering dust and rust, unused for years. He had an urge to take it out and polish it. He could feel the recoil of the gunshot and hear the bullet explode form the pistol and see it tear a hole through the body. It gave him shudders, of something that was more akin to pleasure than anything else. 

It was a forbidden urge and John tried to repress it as his other self narrated how Sherlock had come up to him and asked him if he was okay, considering John had just killed a man and how they'd gone to dinner. 

_ "And then I moved in, and it was the first time in a long while I'd allowed myself to think of happiness. I Couldn't sleep that night, and I kept thinking of how he'd single handedly turned my world upside down and still he had been eating dinner with me and talking to me like he hadn't just saved me."  _ John was choking on tears now, his voice catching in his throat.  _ "I was so alone. And I owe you so much. So damn much." _ Then there was the beginning of a sob and then the recording abruptly came to a stop. 

John's breathing was sharp, moisture pooling on his eyes for no apparent reason, except perhaps by the grief in his voice in the clip. Slowly, he fell onto the bed on his back, picturing the night that had just been described to him and it filled him with great longing. But he decided to ignore his thoughts in favour of listening to the next clip. 

Again the recording began and John stared up at the ceiling, as his own voice drew for him another world, talking about how they lived, the cases they solved, the people they loved- their pathologist friend, their wonderful Landlady, and then came the Woman. John could detect a certain jealousy in his other self’s voice. 

_ "Then, there is the Woman. He called her that. Not by her name, just as the Woman. Like she was the only woman that mattered. She was brilliant, really. A dominatrix by profession, but she had a sharp mind and had taken to him, two smart people attracted to each other, I guess. I think he liked her too, though he always denied it. She understood him well, I think.  _

_ "But then she understood me too. I was denying that him and I were a couple, and I shouted that I wasn't gay. And she looked at me and said, 'but I am. Look at us both.'"  _ There was an uncomfortable pause and then John in the phone continued.  _ "She still texts him. He says he never replies, except maybe sometimes."  _

And with that the Phone John completely changed the topic, leaving the other one wondering who this woman was and why did this John not seem to like her and why did he detect jealousy in his voice. 

And then there was something about the detective guy leaving for two years, and here John in the phone apologized heavily, muttering again and again that they should have talked to each other and that John couldn't save him from pain and a string of 'sorry's after that. 

Then he talked about his daughter and once again that fondness seem to wrap around his voice, making it soft around the edges.  _ "She's beautiful. She talks and talks, and never lets us sleep, not that he likes to sleep anyway. She hasn't started speaking cohesively yet, but the way she talks to her stuffed toys sometimes...It's, it's so much like him. And I know he insists that she isn't his daughter, at least biologically, that's only me, but I see flashes of him in her and God, it's so wonderful.  _

_"I always wished that she'd grow up to be like him._ _Yeah she looks like me in her features, but the pointed look of disdain she sometimes throws at me is all him."_ He chuckled gently, supposingly reminiscing the memory. 

The John of the present looked at the clock in the wall and found that almost two hours had elapsed each recording about an hour long. 

The clip was reaching its end. 

_ "So yeah, I want to say: sorry, and thank you and goodbye,and…” _ Phone John trailed off, before a wave of emotion seized him and he burst out, " _ You were the best thing that happened to me, and to this day I can't believe how we got lucky enough to meet each other. Shit,"  _ he laughed dryly,  _ "but it's probably for the best we don't ever meet, because I can't bear to cause you the pain I already have. So goodbye and thanks.  _

_ "You know, if I'd never met you, I'd never believe you even existed. it was a privilege knowing you. _

_ "I don't know why I'm saying all of this. Am I just narrating about our time together? God I don’t   _ _ know. Maybe, it's Like a suicide note. Like the one you left me before you'd left. Of course no one but me is ever going to hear this, but it felt important somehow.  _

_ "And I know I won't remember any of it, or us, when this is over, but every second of it is worth preserving."  _

_ "God," _ The voice laughed bitterly and self deprecatingly,  _ "I sound so sappy. The look you'd give me if you heard this..."  _

There was silence then and John was about to stop the clip, thinking it was over, when a last sentence echoed, the voice shaky, yet firm in its intent. 

_ "I love you, Sherlock."  _

The clip ended and the atmosphere was thick with emotions, the confession still ringing in John's ears. He'd stopped breathing where he lay, little shivers passing down his spine. 

"Sherlock." The word was barely anything above a whisper. He repeated the name a few times, trying the foreign string of syllables on his tongue. 

The word he'd been trying to say when he fell. Not a plea to lock something up, but a  _ name _ . And not just any name, the name of the man that Phone John had been talking about for the past two hours. The man that the John in his phone loved. The brilliant, only one in the whole world Consulting Detective. 

'He' finally had a name. And a weird one at that, too. 

John lay on his bed for a long time, wondering about everything that he'd heard about, visualising a life like that. He thought about the daughter the other John had. He had Sarah didn't have any kids, not that they didn't want any-they'd tried for a year after their marriage-but they hadn't been successful. It didn't bother John much-.he'd never seen himself as a children type of guy, his own experience with his abusive father decreasing any wish he had of having children. Sarah too didn't seem to mind, as it was they both were doctors and so had steady jobs that kept them both plenty occupied and a close circle of friends provided socialising with others. It was a calm, peaceful life. 

These words irritated John a lot. Even though he'd always thought of marrying someone and settling down into the domesticity of marriage, sometimes it itched at him and he hated every aspect of his existence. 

He hated being so bitter- his need for danger and violence was a vice he could keep well hidden from everyone else, but his own mind didn't spare him from the guilt that came with such unnatural wants. 

John spiralled on into the battle of his desires and his conscience, his tired body giving up on the topic as it lulled him into sleep. 

\------- 

He awoke to whispered words and gentle nudges as the world became clearer and he mumbled out something as he saw Sarah scrunch her eyebrows in confusion. 

"Sherlock? What's that? John, are you okay?" Dimly John realized what he'd said and again the urge to hide what he'd discovered came over him and he groaned a little as his mind tuned into the real world. 

"What? No. I didn't say anything like that, I must have been dreaming." He sat up groggily, unaware of how much time had elapsed as he rubbed at his eye."What's the time?" 

"It's just after nine." Sarah's handbag was still perched on her shoulder, like she'd come straight to him upon arriving home. 

"Hey," John smiled sheepishly, "I'm sorry I haven't done anything for dinner. I got tired and..." he trailed off. 

"No, that's okay. You needed the rest. Are you feeling better now?" 

_ That was a relative question, really _ John thought. Physically he might be okay, but emotionally a lot had been going on, the facts still returning to his brain and John thought he might have a headache with the mental chaos it was causing. He still nodded his head in affirmation.

He wanted to get away from all of it and so he suggested to Sarah with a grin, "Why don't we go out for dinner tonight? We haven't gone out for ages, it will be like a date." 

Sarah laughed a little and gently touched John's arm, "It's a great idea, but you need to be sure that you're up to it." 

John nodded his head fervently in a display of just how 'up to it' he was, almost desperate to get rid of the thoughts assaulting his consciousness. "I'm completely fine." 

Ten minutes later, both of them were dressed, and John looked at Sarah appreciatively. It had been a long time since either of them had made any effort to dress up for each other. 

Sarah elbowed him jokingly and the two exited the building, deciding what restaurant they should go to. Finally, they settled on a fancy fine dining place that had opened nearby recently. They walked to the diner hand in hand, exchanging irrelevant conversation, both hoping for a lot of things from this dinner. 

A bit too much, they would soon realise. 

As they settled into their chairs, the waiter greeting them with neutral smiles and murmurs. He placed a menu card in front of them, which mostly looked like it was printed in French to John and left them to it. There was silence as both of them looked at their menus. 

But for John the words slowly lost all meaning and dissipated into the air, other thoughts barging in, demanding attention. And soon he was lost in visions of all that he'd heard that day, his own voice giving a narrative to the clip that played in his mind like a movie. 

He imagined running down the streets of London, his heart in his mouth and thrill coursing through his veins like a drug. And dear God, John was an addict. 

He imagined a mysterious dark voice urging him on, as he turned from one street to another, a light in the distance the only sign of the cab they were chasing. Release from the chase seemed like a far off goal, but John didn't mind. If he could have his way, it would go on forever. He could feel the metal of his gun cool against his skin, a reassuring weight, and... 

"John?" His name was a question and it wasn't in the deep dark tones he'd been imagining, it was a soft, high pitched, urgent tone. 

He looked up from the menu he'd been staring at. The waiter had come up to their table, asking for their orders and Sarah was casting him an annoyed look. 

"I already called your name twice! What were you thinking about? Nevermind," she withdrew her question with an outstretched hand, "what do you want to eat?" She glanced at the waiter and then back at John. 

"Err..." John's mind was blank, still caught up in the chase and he suddenly realised that he was breathing harder than usual. "Whatever she's having." He said dismissively. 

The waiter gave him a withering look masked only a little by politeness and left the table. 

Sarah looked at him questioningly, no doubt irritated by John's lack of involvement in the dinner. John shrugged. "Oh, it's nothing. Sorry, I zoned out little." He smiled apologetically. She only sighed and then nodded her head, accepting the apology. 

Throughout dinner they talked. Well, it was mostly Sarah who initiated the conversation, while John tried to be attentive enough to be able to at least nod and hum in response every few minutes, his thoughts encroaching the space in his brain. A part of him wanted all of this over quickly, so that he could think about the proceedings of the day and not be disturbed by aimless conversation. 

Hard as he tried, he could not turn it off, and while Sarah talked about an entertaining patient that she'd seen in the clinic that day, John wondered what the other one had meant by saying that he would soon forget about all of it. Of course that triggered the question about how had the phone and other items come into his possession, and how did it have an audio clip that John never remembered recording, or who Sherlock was, and whether or not he even existed. 

He reached into his pocket to remove his phone out, to google the name and see if anything turned up, when an angry huff brought him to the present. Sarah had risen from her chair, towering over the half eaten meal on the table, disappointment and anger drawing lines onto her face. 

Before John could know what was really happening, Sarah had tucked some money under her dish, grabbing her bag and heading out of the restaurant. 

"Sarah, wait!" Confusion and alarm shone out from amongst the various emotions he was experiencing, as he wobbled after her calling out her name, shooting apologetic looks to the people who had stopped their eating and talking to watch the scene. 

Sarah walked in jerky, brisk strides, her handbag swinging to and fro as she marched back to their flat. Even when John caught up to her, she only fumed silently, her fingers tapping on her crossed arms impatiently as they waited to cross a road, the sign of a ticking bomb. 

It was when they'd closed the door to the flat behind them, did Sarah act on her anger, flinging her bag onto the sofa and rounded up on John, her eyes blazing. 

"I thought dinner was you trying to fix things, but I was wrong." 

John put his hand out in front of him trying to make peace, his grip tightening on his cane,.but he grew more defensive by the minute."Fix what?" It was more of a request than a question- a request to lay out the details of the miserable existence they'd been having, to finally put it all out in full view. 

Whatever restraint she might have worked up vanished, as she talked, her voice steadily rising to a shout. "Fix what? Maybe the fact that you didn't hear a single word I said over dinner, how you have stopped seeming to care or maybe how we've stopped communicating as a couple or how we haven't even tried to touch each other for days now. 

"Or maybe," her voice cracked a little, all the individual problems coming together to form the crux of it all, "How our marriage is crumbling from the lack of giving a single fuck about it." 

There. It had been said. 

It was all laid out, bare and ugly. They'd stopped caring. 

But perhaps this is what John needed to snap out of the daydream that he'd been in since that evening. He suddenly realised the ridiculousness of it all. 

Here he was, obsessing over a story, an audio clip on some phone he'd found, believing that such a world could even exist. He was obsessing over a man who probably wasn't even real. _ Consulting Detective _ , John thought with a bitter smile, how easily he'd believed in all of it. How desperate he'd been. 

That's what hurt the most. He'd never questioned all that he'd heard simply because he wanted it to be true so badly. He wanted to escape the life that he lived in, wanted to escape the routine, the boredom, the sheer  _ dullness _ . 

It didn't matter if this was a prank or a supernatural phenomenon or just someone with a voice a lot like John's. What mattered was that he'd been taken in so easily. 

And then lay the consequences of it. Sarah standing in front of him, another witness to their disintegrating marriage. 

Yes it hadn't been just him that had led to this, they were both to be equally blamed, but John's guilt was enough to induce an ashamed silence, his head hung low. 

When he said nothing, Sarah turned to their bedroom and John heard the sharp click of the lock. Minutes later, she came out dressed in her night clothes, a pillow and a quilt in her hands. At first John thought he was going to be sleeping on the couch, instead Sarah began to make herself comfortable, muttering something about how John should be sleeping inside because he'd fallen today and still seemed to be recovering. 

When John offered to take the couch instead, saying that she shouldn't have to sleep there, she remarked scathingly that she thought chivalry was better dead. And so John ended up once again staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, but this time miserable and bitter. He couldn't shake off the guilt and self hatred that surrounded him. Even now, he couldn't deny the pull of the world that had been presented to him. 

Even now, he wanted all of it to be real. 

His own voice rang in his head and he heard the last sentence clearly. 

_ "I love you, Sherlock."  _

He remembered the emotion that had flooded the statement and it hurt to know that he himself had never felt for anyone the way the John in the phone seemed to. Not even to Sarah could be pledge such intense affection. 

Sure he'd told her he loved her a hundred times, and he did, he cared for her deeply, but it couldn't be stretched enough to say that he loved her in the over-the-top, sacrificing, soul-mates kind of way. John hadn't even believed that it could exist, let alone that he could love someone like that; it had just seemed like a sham that movies pulled off. 

But what John heard that evening was irrefutable proof that it existed. But that didn't matter. That love wasn't his to claim. 

He thought about Sarah's face as she shouted at him back in the living room, looking old and worn and tired, torn apart into shreds by her own anger. He ran his hands over his face, pressing the palms into his eyes, hating everything and wishing it would all just disappear. 

But then he rearranged his features into calm and determination, strengthening his resolve to make things better. After thinking for a few minutes, he decided that to save what he had in the present, he would have to let go of what he'd found. Because he knew that if he let it, the world that had been presented to him would swallow him whole and would leave nothing for the outside world. 

And John couldn't have that. 

And so, he got up from the bed, leaning heavily on the cane as he walked, swaying a little as his head swam, feeling as though he was possessed. His heart hammered as he picked up the phone, the clothes, the wristband, and everything else that had suddenly come into his possession and opened his closet. 

In a corner, well hidden by shirts that he never wore and his army uniform, lay his gun, perhaps rusty from use. John couldn't help it, he took it into his hands, fingers almost caressing the heavy metal, pressing his fingertips into the hole of the muzzle. His spine prickled when the cold touched his skin and when he finally set it down, his whole body quivered in protest. 

He tucked in the other items too, and then taking a deep shuddering breath, shut the closet doors with a sharp click. 

The next morning when he announced to Sarah he was regrowing his moustache, she didn't protest if she had any objections to it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I married John to Sarah! I wanted to experiment in a world where John married someone normal. Not a secret assassin, just a normal person. And I did like Sarah a lot. 
> 
> Also, I used his moustache like a mask that he puts on, like he did when he was with Mary.  
> P.s.sorry for the one day late update!


	5. Passing Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks later, while John is still struggling to forget the discovery he made, a revelation brings him closer to the truth.

John inhaled the pleasing scent of paper and books one last time as he exited the book store, a bag with a book in it in one hand and his cane in the other. 

The book was a romantic poems compilation and once again John considered if it was the best idea to gift Sarah this for her birthday. He'd told her he'd be working a little extra to makeup for the shift he'd missed the other day, so he could buy it. 

Things were still fragile between them and both of them took extra care to show their love and affection for each other. 

It had been two weeks since the big fight, a night that John spent drowned in self loathing, and an apology and a promise whispered in Sarah's ear as he took her into his arms the next morning. The clothes, wristband and phone were still locked in his closet with the gun, shielded from view.  _ If only it were as easy to shield them from his thoughts  _ John mused. 

Subconsciously, he stroked the moustache that he'd been growing for some time. It had grown to a respectable length now and John took good care of it. 

Fifteen days later, flashes of the recordings still hit him at random, the emotions that accompanied them threatening to completely override all his other senses. 

The nights were still sleepless. Not from nightmares of the battlefield, but from vivid dreams of alleys and cabs and danger, a hint of a child's giggles, their daughter John knew in the dream. He would wake up from them with ragged breathing and his heart thumping wildly in its cavity. The adrenaline would break all hell loose and then for hours John could not get a wink of sleep, his thoughts were confused and smoldering, like a rocket with a glitch trying to take off. It would burn both itself and the launch pad in its stubbornness. 

John dimly sensed that he was heading towards home, as he wobbled on. Suddenly, he came to a stop, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He looked at his surroundings and realised that he was in one of the deserted areas, where crimes could occur in broad daylight without hindrance. It was one of those streets that tourists were warned against going near, for the fear that they'd be subject to some of the other crime. 

He was relatively near the periphery though and he had a good chance of being able to walk away from the area now and face no danger. And yet, after a moment's pause, he walked on, into the streets which seemed to get dimmer and darker. Even as he limped on, his ears were alert and twitching for the slightest sound, for the smallest evidence that he wasn't alone. 

Waiting for the silence to explode into action. 

At last, it did. Footsteps echoed behind him, breaking the sinister calm that had spread all over. John stopped in his tracks, his shoulders both relaxing from the torture of waiting and tensed, ready to face whatever was thrown at him. 

As the footsteps grew louder, a man came into view, brandishing a knife that shone a little in the dim sunlight of the street. He walked to a spot in front of John, with a few feet between them, pointing his knife at the limping man in front of him, singling him out as a target. His attacker hadn't done much to cover himself and when John took a closer look, he understood why. 

Overall, both his face and clothing were nondescript and whatever identifiable features he may have had were hidden under a thick beard, his upper face covered in thick grime. When he spoke, his voice was gruff and raspy as if not having talked in a long time. "Pass me yer wallet an' yer money," he said, "Or else..." he waved the blade at John threateningly. 

John simply raised an eyebrow as if assessing the situation. He put the bag in one of his jacket pockets, the book inside wasn't all that big, and then replied, " Bit of an effort to do that from all the way there, eh mate? Let me help you." 

John stepped closer to the man, who looked surprised and a bit taken back by the stupidity of John's actions. To him, John was a limping old man, an easy target, who he thought would instantly shed all his valuables and make a quick escape. 

To him, John was an unassuming civilian that had stepped over the threshold of safety into his hands, a quick and rewarding opportunity. 

But oh, how wrong he was. 

"Didn't yer hear wha' I said?" He bared his teeth, "quit fuckin' around an' give me whatever you've got." 

"Here I am, plainly defying all your instructions," John replied, spreading his hand out in emphasis. "What are you going to do?" He knew his cockiness would aggravate the guy, and perhaps that was his intention, as he boldly stood his ground. 

It did its job.

The man wielded his knife and lunged at John, trying to draw scratches on his skin. But John was quick and he dodged his attacks with ease, his left leg’s mobility improving every second, his cane no longer a burden but a useful weapon. For a few minutes the two continued the pattern of attack and defense, until John's opponent could no longer stand it. 

There was a low growl, and the man lunged at John, his right hand drawn in an arc, ready to strike John's arm, when John struck his cane hard onto his assailant's forearm, the force ringing through the man's hand before his hand became momentarily useless, the knife dropping onto the ground with a satisfying"clang". 

Before the man had a chance to recover from his shock, John hit him on his neck with the length of his cane and the impact made the man jerk away, almost losing his balance and stumbling. John was almost sure the fight was over, slightly disappointed by it's short time. 

He was wrong. 

His opponent recovered fairly quickly and acted with a speed that clearly suggested a high intellect. 

It's perhaps some sort of animal instinct that people revert to hand to hand combat when more sophisticated methods fail, because this time when the man drew his hand back, he was gaining momentum for a punch. 

But John was a trained army soldier. 

He dodged the first few punches with fair ease, his cane Efficiently blocking the blows. But his adversary learnt quickly and while his hands moved in for another punch, he deftly kicked John in his calves, a move that was aimed at making John stumble. 

And John did so, giving the man the small moment of vulnerability that he needed. He landed a sound blow to John's stomach and John reeled at the pain, falling into a nearby wall, his grip loosening on his cane, breathing hard and shallow. 

But John would be damned if he gave up so easily. He straightened up in a jiffy, cracking the joints of his neck as he stretched it from side to side. Then, he gripped his cane from the middle of its length, a weapon readied for action. John had earlier aimed at defense when he'd hit the guy, but now John was hell bent on returning every blow that he'd been given. 

He walked towards the man, with a determined glare and jumped into action. Even as the man tried to attack him, John was too quick. Using the grip of his cane as a hook, he placed on the back of the man's neck and pulled him forward. The man's back bent as he fumbled to remove it and John kneed him in his stomach. The man grunted at the impact. 

It was short lived, however, and he caught the cane as it was returning fully into John's grasp and tugged at it hard, sending John stumbling to the side. But John did not relinquish his grip on the cane and it came back into his hand. He charged at the mugger from the side, grabbing his arm and twisting it hard, into what John knew would develop into a sprain. 

The man yelped in pain and John took the chance to get back into his position in front of the man. He held his cane from its long end, the grip once again shooting towards his assailant. This time, however, it went for his thighs and once it was positioned behind them, John yanked it with a cry, causing the man to fully lose his balance and hit the gravel hard on his back. 

The man groaned form all the pain, before he stopped moving.Of course, he wasn't dead. 

With the man on the ground, John relaxed, but only the slightest bit, as he positioned his cane on his attacker's chest, keeping him in place. The man was slightly concussed anyway, but John didn't really want to take chances. He dusted his clothes with his free hand, checking on the man to see if he was conscious. A brief inspection proved that he wasn't entirely under. 

"Teach you to trouble innocent people, yeah?" John muttered, knowing fully that it wasn't his motive behind the fight. Guilt stung at the edges of his conscience and John looked away, before a piece of brown leather caught his eye. 

He extracted the wallet from the pockets of the man's jacket, one of two jackets, he observed. The wallet looked branded and new and far fancier than its current owner could possibly afford. A peep inside confirmed a good amount of cash in it and some credit cards. 

John bent on his knees as he went through the various pockets and depths of the mugger's clothing. The man beneath him was pliant and unresisting as John frisked him, and the latter sighed as he found six wallets in his preliminary search itself. 

He'd earlier thought of leaving the man here until he came to, emerging a winner from their little street fight and going home. But here they were six wallets of owners who must have been worried and horrified at being mugged. 

John got up with a groan, his limp slowly making itself known. He was grateful that the man was not fully conscious as his joints cracked and a dull throb began in his shoulder muscles. It had been a while since he'd done this. 

He reached into his pocket for his phone to call the police, cursing when he found that it wasn't there. It must have fallen when he was fighting. 

He looked around and, sure enough, it lay on the ground, it's screen cracked from hitting the rocky road with force. He picked it up, all the time side eyeing the unmoving man for any signs of life. He looked at the phone, surveying the damage. It didn't look very serious, but when John tried to switch on the phone it's screen stayed blank and John cursed out loud. 

He had no choice but to call the cops using the other guy's phone. In one of the innumerable pockets he found a mobile and John thanked his stars when it's screen flooded with light. It had no password, thankfully, and John called 101 as his breaths finally slowed down to it's normal pace, the effects of such strenuous exercise revealing themselves as the adrenaline rush ebbed away. 

"101. What's your emergency?" A cool voice came from the other end and John explained his situation as the person on the other side hummed in understanding. She was surprised at the outcome of the mugging. John had expected so, as they must usually get complaints of people having been mugged or injured by their assailant, not the other way around. 

Nonetheless, she made no comments and assured him that an officer would come by soon, asking for his exact location. She also told him that he might need to go to the police station to narrate his account. John said his thanks and cut the call, left with no option but to wait for the Yard to arrive. 

He stood there keeping a vigil on his attacker's body, watching as he slowly came to. He hoped the man wouldn't be in complete possession of his wits before the police came. But as it was, John had sprained his dominant hand, so perhaps it wouldn't be a big problem. 

Either way, the bloke's recovery was slow and John was left with nothing but his thoughts to keep him somehow occupied. 

And so John thought about the fight. 

He thought about how he'd walked into it, how he wasn't panicked but calm while facing danger and how pleasure had tingled in his nerves as he blocked and delivered blows. He could blame this sudden need for trouble to Sherlock and the audio clips, but he knew all too well that these urges had been there way before two weeks ago. 

He remembered going to therapy, and he remembered opting out of it, because his therapist thought the war haunted him and he was tired of lying thousands of times to fit into that belief. Yes it had helped reduce the trauma that he had suffered, and helped somewhat with his depression, but he had been thought that its cons outweighed the positive outcomes. 

And so the desire had lurked in the dark depths of his brain, making itself known every so often. He hadn't even fully told Sarah about it. 

When he'd met her, during the course of wanting to find a job to get by along with his army pension, there was mutual attraction between them and when they'd started dating, John had pushed all his demons into the closet with other skeletons. Of course every so often the closet would open just a crack. 

He couldn't divorce himself from the side of him that was a soldier, that craved danger, from the side of him that saved lives and looked after people. He was an army doctor for a reason. 

This, here, had been an instance where the doors to his other side had opened more than a crack and John had immensely enjoyed it. With the acceptance of it guilt came too, but this time John could lower its sound to a whisper. 

And yet it wasn't a complete lie that the audio clips and Sherlock had acted as a catalyst, further removing his restraints. 

He looked down at the man who could now twitch his fingers, his legs moving slightly and realised that he'd gone too far. This wasn't what he should have done to someone trying to mug him. 

“Shit” he whispered from clenched teeth.

He'd always thought that he was a man who had good control over his instincts and his desires, but this clearly showed otherwise. He'd locked up part of himself for too long and now he faced its consequences. 

As the man beneath him moved, John crouched down beside him. "Look," he said, as the mugger slowly blinked open his eyes, "Your hand is sprained and if you try to get away, I can have you back here in a jiffy. So just lie down there until they come and you'll be okay." 

The man tried to get up despite John's warnings and a sharp pain seized him in his right arm, so that he howled loudly before he lay down again, trying to ease his pain. "Who's them?" He asked, fear making ripples in his tone. 

When John didn't answer, the other guy cursed both God and John and tried to get up again. This time he got into his feet and moved a few steps before exhaustion and pain took over and he slumped against the narrow street wall. "Wha' the fuck did yer do to me?" He asked from behind gritted teeth. 

Again guilt stabbed at John, but he suppressed it as he replied, "It's just a sprain, like I told you before. The rest of it is just fighting injuries. A few days in lock up should give you enough rest to be okay again." He smirked at the man. 

"Fuck off mate." And then there was another gasp of pain. 

 Just then, there was the sound of an engine running and tires screeching and John prepared himself for another assailant, squaring his shoulders and gripping his cane tighter. But the car was the Yard's and John relaxed as an officer stepped out from behind the wheel. Another officer emerged from the seat next to it. 

"Did you make the call sir?" The officer from behind the wheel spoke. She was clearly the one in charge. The other guy stood only a step behind her. 

"Uh, yes. I did." John said with a nod, "he, uh, tried to mug me." He pointed at the figure slumped against the wall. 

The subordinate officer looked doubtful that a man with a limp could do that to someone, but the other one knew. When she'd stepped out from the car, she'd seen John transform from a calm yet dangerous sentry at guard, prepared to face any attack, to a relaxed civilian, giving over the power to authorities. She wasn't fooled by his harmless appearance. 

 

"All right," she said, looking around them, "best not to stay here too long. Pillock, cuff the guy and take him inside. Sir," she turned to John, "you'll need to come with us to file a complaint." Her voice was authoritative yet polite and she turned around as the other officer, Pillock, took the man inside the vehicle. 

 

John followed then inside the vehicle. After ten minutes of awkward silence, punctuated by low groans from the prisoner they finally pulled up to the Yard. 

 

Pillock led the man to a holding cell, who while leaving muttered a threat to John about taking revenge that both of them knew was hollow. The superior officer took John to an adjacent room where most of the officers were at their desks. She led him to a desk beside an officer with a mane of curly hair and a small scowl and asked him to wait a minute while she brought out the necessary papers. 

 

A few minutes later, John was speaking in low clear tones about the whole ordeal, when he sensed the officer at the adjacent desk listening in. A quick glance at her showed she looked just as suspicious as Pillock about the accuracy of John's description of the event. 

Just as John was finishing his narration, another officer joined the curly haired one next to him, running a hand through his pepper and salt hair wearily. 

"Did he call in or drop by yet?" He asked the curly haired officer with a hopeful look on his face. 

"No there's no response from the freak." She said with some venom. 

"For the last time, Sally, don't call him a freak. It's been years now, since he's been helping us. Call him Sherlock." He paused and then continued, his voice low as if he was talking to himself, "I'm worried he's using again." 

Bedside them, John had stopped talking. His heart hammered wildly in his chest, as the word echoed in his head  _ Sherlock  _

The officer he was giving his account to looked up from her paperwork, casting a quizzical look at John who was now turned to the two officers.

Before he could stop himself, John blurted out, "Sherlock. I mean," he tried to correct himself, "You know Sherlock?" 

Sally and the other officer turned to him, Sally's keen eyes gleaming with curiosity as she surveyed his features. "How do you know the freak?" She asked narrowing her eyes. Greg shot her an exasperated look before looking at John, expressing the same question with a shrug. 

John was still internally reeling at the fact that Sherlock existed. Not just a figment of his imagination of a character in the other John's universe, but a living, breathing man that stayed in the same city as he did. 

Quickly he backtracked, "I think we must know two different Sherlocks." He said with a weak smile. 

"How many Sherlocks do you think live around here?" Came the sharp remark from Sally, not convinced by John's deflection. 

"Err," John fumbled, not knowing how he could explain it to the two. He's a guy that the other John in the phone lives with and solves crimes with? 

Perhaps the other inspector took his fumbling as embarrassment, because he said with an awkward smile, "Are you his ex?" 

John wanted to laugh. His other self had told him how everyone always assumed that they were a couple. Now he had seen it in action. 

"No no," he put out his hands, "I've just heard of him that's all. He's the, err, consulting detective, isn't he?" 

"Yeah," the grey haired inspector said with a smile, "that's the one." 

Just then, someone coughed in interruption and all of them collectively looked towards its source. It was the officer with whom John had been filing his complaint. She pointed towards the papers on her desk,"Greg, a minute?" 

"Oh, yeah sorry Farah," the officer, Greg, smiled apologetically. He gave John a small smile and gestured towards Farah. 

John spoke the rest of what was left on autopilot, his mind racing with a hundred possibilities and options. Here was irrefutable proof that Sherlock existed, and perhaps that those accounts given by the other John existed too. 

Yes, he'd earlier decided that he wouldn't pursue it further, but that was when he'd doubted the truth of those recordings. Now, an opportunity had presented itself to him to get all the answers he'd been looking for and John tried to convince himself that it was all he was looking for. 

Just the answers. 

Once he finished with Farah, he turned towards Greg and Sally, only to find them leaving the room. "Wait!" He called out to them. 

Perhaps they'd been expecting, even hoping for him to call them, because they turned around immediately. John hobbled up to them, a little clumsy as he tried to walk fast. "Just, um, could you please give me his address?" 

Greg looked unsure whether he should and John continued, "I have a case I want to take to him." 

Sally raised an eyebrow and Greg gestured to the place around them, indicating that John could bring it to the police. 

"No, it's a weird case, not for the police, um,I think he'd be interested in it." 

"Sure," Lestrade said, shifting a bit. He took out his phone, "Give me your phone number, I'll text it to you." John nodded and took out his phone, before realizing that it had broken. 

"Sorry," he muttered, showing them the cracked screen. "You can write it down for me." He patted down his jacket, looking for a piece of paper. "Shit." He cursed under his breath. Then he remembered the book. He quickly removed it out of his pocket, it had fit easily into the large space. He opened the book, flipping the pages until he found a blank side of paper. "Here," he gave it to Greg, picking up a pen from a nearby desk. 

Greg looked a little taken aback by his sudden burst of enthusiasm. Nonetheless, he wrote down the address on the bottom of the page, the upper half covered by his own hand. Once he was done, he closed the book and handed it over to John. 

"Thanks." John said. Then he remembered that they hadn't introduced themselves at all. With a self deprecating laugh, he held out his hand, "Sorry I completely forgot, I'm John Watson." 

"Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector." Greg smiled, shaking the offered hand. When Sally did not seem very keen on being friendly, Greg added, "Sally Donavan, Police Sergeant." Sally rolled her eyes but nodded at John. 

John was about to leave, when Greg pulled at his sleeve. "Um, John," Greg's hand reached up to rub at his neck, "I've been meaning to check up on him myself. Just if he's, you know, using drugs again, tell him to give me a call." 

"Yeah. Sure." John nodded understandingly. "Cheers mate." 

\------ 

When John got back home, Sarah was waiting for him, looking worried. Immediately she was at his side, showering him with questions. 

"Give me a moment", John said with a smile, giving her a soft kiss on her lips. He walked inside, shedding all his clothing and taking a shower, feeling grimy from all the dirt that he'd picked up on while fighting. He tended to his moustache and walked out with clean clothes on, feeling fresh. 

Then he told Sarah all that had happened when he was coming home, all the while sipping tea, leaving out the part where he bought the book at the bookshop, figuring it was better as a surprise and the conversation with Greg Lestrade. 

When he was finished, Sarah looked at him intently and then said with a quirk of her lips,"I didn't know you could be all..." she made a punching gesture with her hand, "heroic." 

"Yeah?" John replied smirking, "You think it was heroic?" 

Sarah mockingly slapped his arm, "Oh shut it." And then she added with a shy look, "it was pretty brave of you." 

But even as John laughed, he was aware that the air didn't contain that intoxicating mix that had been present in their early days of the relationship and he was reminded of the address in the book.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. 

After dinner, when Sarah was washing the dishes-it was her turn today- John entered his room, leaning his cane on the bedside table. He sat on the edge of his bed, looking at the paper bag beside him that contained the book with the address in it. 

Sherlock's address. 

Part of John still couldn't believe that he was real. That Sherlock could be a living, breathing man, existing in the way that his own voice had described to him. 

He took out the book, flipping through the pages a few times until he found the right one. He read the words And then reread them once more, though they were committed to his memory without a conscious effort. 

221B Baker Street. 

It was scrawled in the Inspector's hasty handwriting and John ran the pad of his thumb over the ink, silently mouthing the words. He noticed that the paper was thin and turned the page to see if the ink had bled onto the other side, and sure enough, the last line of the poem was hidden by the overwriting of blue pen. He looked up to check the title of the poem on the left hand side page, thinking distractedly if Sarah would mind it. 

_ To A Stranger _ _ \- Walt Whitman, _ the text read and a memory pulled at John's consciousness, as if he'd read the poem before. Perhaps he had, for the last line came to him as he tried to read the text that as obscured by the address of the man who he'd loved in another life. 

_ I am to see to it that I do not lose you _ .

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys!!!  
> I posted it one day earlier than usual to compensate for the delay the last time.  
> Also I've never written an action/fighting scene before, so please feel free to give any constructive criticism on it!  
> I love the poem To A Stranger, so when it idea came to me I HAD to use it.  
> So... John finally met Greg and Sally!!!  
> Yeah.  
> Anyways, please leave kudos and comments if you liked the chapter.


	6. Take Me Back To The Night We Met.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is finding it even more difficult to make his decision than he'd thought it would be, but keeping them apart is more than the universe's cup of tea.

John woke up to sunlight planting soft kisses on his skin and the pleasant hazy buzz of having slept well. That, however, was falsehood, since John had spent the better part of the night researching "Sherlock Holmes". 

He'd found a website called the 'Science Of Deduction', which seemed impossibly clever to him and, if he hadn't had confirmation of Sherlock's huge intellect from the other John, a huge sham. But Sherlock Holmes was real and it was confirmed by the Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and the other inspector Sally Donovan as well as the recordings. 

John sat up in his bed, searching for where he'd kept the wristband and other things in the hazy fog of his sleep addled mind.  _ Still in the closet _ , he recollected. 

But the phone he'd taken out and had decided to use it, since his old phone was broken, using the latter's sim card. That last detail had mercifully spared him from a lot of loss of data in the form of contacts and pictures that he would have had to take from Sarah's phone otherwise. To her, he'd explained that it was an old phone and thankfully she'd believed it. 

John still hadn't exactly decided whether or not to visit Baker Street, but last night he'd gone to bed with the intention of going to the address. He nodded his head to himself in determination, all the while reminding himself that he was only going there for the answers. 

There was a creak of the door to their bedroom opening, and John froze where he sat, as though he'd been caught doing something forbidden. 

He still hadn't told Sarah and had found that he didn't want to. Sherlock was his secret and as stupid as it sounded, John sometimes felt guilt make it's way into his thoughts, as if he were cheating on Sarah by the mere knowledge of Sherlock's existence. 

"Good morning," Sarah entered with a warm smile, "stay where you are, I've made you breakfast in bed." 

"Oh," John's eyes widened in surprise, "Sarah, thanks, you didn't have to." 

Sarah had done the dishes yesterday night and therefore it had technically been John's turn to make the food. But Sarah brushed it off with a wave of her hand as she set the tray in John's lap. 

 

The tray had a cup of steaming coffee, two scrambled eggs and toast. She sat in front of him on the edge of the bed, talking to him as he ate his breakfast and her smile widened when John complimented her cooking. 

 

"Thanks," she replied, "I thought you'd like it." She gave him a shy smile. 

 

It was amazing how they could still behave as though they were teenagers sometimes, cautious in their advances and approaches. The decision they'd made two weeks ago further reinforced this behavior, with both of them making extra efforts to please each other. 

John smiled back at her and he suddenly observed how the sunlight caught in her hair making them glow a golden brown and how her eyes sparkled when she giggled. He sat still for a moment, looking at the scene, all too aware of everything around him. They were trying. 

They were putting in energy to try and make this work. 

They were being more thoughtful and romantic that they'd been in years and they were improving. 

It was all getting better.

But John had a sinking feeling that somehow, the introduction of Sherlock in his life would change everything. 

Even this. 

Perhaps it was the knowledge that some version of him, somewhere was capable of loving Sherlock in a way that he himself had never loved anyone. Perhaps it was because he remembered what had happened that day when he had merely heard of Sherlock and his supposed life with John- the heady rush of adrenaline and dark alleys where they kept look-outs and the acrid smells of a gunshot. 

Either way, John was beginning to rethink his decision on visiting Sherlock, his resolute 'yes' degrading into uncertainty. 

Maybe his internal conflict had bled out onto his features, because Sarah placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking him out of his reverie. "John, are you okay? Are you feeling ill?" An uncomfortable look flashed across her face. "Will you be able to come to work today? It would be better if you came, since you've already missed three shifts this month and they'll cut your salary if you miss another." she quickly added, "Of course, if you're not feeling well, then rest, it's all right-" 

"No, yeah, I'm fine." John reassured her with a smile. "And I really do need to come to work. I'll go and have a bath." 

There. 

The decision had been made for him. He had meant on going to the address in the morning, but somehow the fact that he had to go and work had been completely absent from his train of thought. 

And so, two hours later, when the door to John's office in the clinic opened to reveal his seventeenth patient, John tried to not scream at the old lady. It wasn't her fault that she'd had knee pain since this morning. 

Or that John finally knew what he wanted to do with the address in the book in his jacket pocket. 

It was very frustrating really, knowing that he could easily take a cab or even walk to the place, but the bloody clock on his wall was going slower than was possible. 

When he looked at the clock once again, fifteen minutes later, there was the sound of someone clearing their throat and John jerked back to reality, as the mother of a five year old gave him a glare, the child coughed meekly as if on cue. John sighed, and went back to being a doctor. 

At two in the afternoon, when they finally had a break, John stood up with such force from his chair that it rolled over to the wall behind him and collided with a big bang. He cracked his joints and tried to ease his stiff neck form the pain that had developed from continuously looking up the whole morning. 

Again, he couldn’t help removing the book from his pocket and flip to the exact page where Lestrade had scrawled the address, as if that would make the moment where he could go to baker street come any faster. 

John supposed he could reproduce Lestrade's handwriting exactly now that he'd seen it a hundred times and snapped the book shut in frustration. 

He tried to avoid the thought, but it surfaced anyway. John was slightly uncomfortable by the magnitude of his desire to meet Sherlock Holmes. He wished he could soothe the rising wave of anticipation and nervousness that filled him and made his good leg tap on the floor impatiently. 

Knowing that he'd probably take out the book a hundred times if it was with him, John decided to leave it in the drawer of his desk. He walked outside to the coffee machine, waiting for the person in front of him to fill their cup. Again, his feet began their tapping, his fingers matching the rhythm on his folded hands, his jaw clenched to suppress the urge to sigh or make any kind of noise that betrayed the chaos of his mind. 

He was so focused on not bursting from the sheer energy trapped in him, that he didn't even notice Sarah enter until she touched his arm and softly called out, "Hey." 

John jumped, partly in surprise, but partly because of all the nervous energy pent up. He felt wound up like a spring. "Sorry, I didn't see you there." John said with an apologetic look. 

Sarah's eyebrows scrunched up in worry, "John, are you all right? Some of the staff are telling me you're acting all worked up today. Is something bothering you?" 

"Oh no, no, no," John's denial came instantly, "It's fine, I'm just a bit under the weather today. It's nothing at all." 

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" Sarah told him with a small, comforting smile. "I mean, you are acting a bit weird since..." She tried to pinpoint the exact moment when she'd felt it. "Since the day you accidentally fell down." 

"Sarah," John put his hands on her shoulders, his reassurance implied in his firm grip, "I'm completely fine, alright?" He gave her a kiss on the mouth, but it was over before it had begun- almost an accidental brush of lips. 

Then it was his turn to take the coffee and John was relieved by the chance to face away from Sarah, guilt prickling at his conscience. A part of him wanted to confess it all to her, but he could not bring himself to form the words. Somehow, every time, they managed to get stuck in his throat and he was forced to retreat. 

He said goodbye to Sarah, going to his office instead of the break room with everyone else, with the excuse that he had a patient's file that he needed to check. Again, her forehead creased, but she mercifully said nothing as John went into the office. 

Hours later, with only minutes before his shift ended, John was already sitting on the edge of his chair, one of his hands on his jacket, ready to leave at a moment's notice. There were only three minutes to eight and John was baffled by how long each second seemed to stretch. 

The door to the room opened and John braced himself for another patient. But it was the nurse. "John, there are no more patient's for you to attend, you can go." She smiled at him, and then added, as if an afterthought, " Sarah will also be able to come with you in a minute." 

Sarah. 

Oh shit, Sarah! He'd completely forgotten about the fact that she would need an explanation as to where he was going. "Thanks." He smiled back at the nurse, as she exited, the door swinging to a close behind her. 

Quickly, he began thinking up of excuses, as he removed his coat and put on his jacket, sure to tuck the book into its pocket, even though he didn't need it anymore, picking up his cane. He walked outside and stood beside Sarah's office, waiting for her to emerge, all the while still making up excuses. 

When she finally came out, a mere five minutes later, she beamed at him, settling her handbag onto her shoulder and saying, "Come on, let's go." 

"Actually," John said, shuffling his feet, " an old friend of mine called. He wanted to go out for drinks tonight." 

"Oh," John watched Sarah's face fall, "which friend?" 

"Err," John hesitated, trying to think of someone who she didn't know, "Bill Murray" 

"Alright," Sarah said giving John a nod, "it was just that I was planning to watch movie tonight, at home, with you." 

"Oh," John felt as though the air was being sucked out from around him, it was becoming more and more suffocating, and he tried to take in a deep breath, "that's okay, I can cancel the drinks, Bill and I can go another day." 

"No, it's okay. It's been a while since either of us have met up with friends. Go on and have fun." She gave him a genuine smile. 

The knot of tension eased up in John's stomach. Though he would have given up on going to Sherlock if Sarah had insisted, he was silently praying that she would decline his proposal even as he put it forward. "Are you sure?" He asked her, but trying not to push his luck too much, she might just change her mind. 

"Yes, absolutely. Bye!" She gave him a long sweet kiss and John wished he'd been more enthusiastic in returning it. 

Really, he was simply itching to go to Baker Street. 

He quickly said his goodbyes, dismissing Sarah's suggestion of changing his attire into something more suitable and limped out to the pavement. He tried, as best as he could with a cane, to walk quickly and made it a good twenty metres before he realised that Baker Street was too.far to go walking- especially with a limp. 

Again, John berated himself for his lack of control and his inability to think straight and shook his head in disbelief. These days, he resembled a lovestruck teenager more than he'd like to admit. 

He quickly hailed a cab, and ten minutes later, John was standing at the door of 221 Baker Street. 

His heart had been hammering in his ribcage as he ascended the handful of steps and was now positively about to leap out from it as he rang the doorbell. Whatever thoughts of fantasies about how Sherlock looked infused in his senses and his eyes were glued to the door, eager to set on the man who would provide all the answers and perhaps something more. 

The scene, however, came to an almost anticlimactic moment, when an old lady opened the door and John's stomach gave a weak lurch of disappointment. She was, if the audio recordings were to be believed, their landlady.  _ Sherlock's landlady _ , John reminded himself. 

She greeted him with a tentative smile, straightening her purple dress, as she asked him, "Yes dear, how can I help you?" 

John cleared his throat, "I'm looking for Sherlock...-- for a case." with a jolt he realised he didn't even know the fucking surname of the man and John stared at the woman in front of him incredulously. How had he come to this? 

"Oh," her features shifted into a weak smile before they dissolved into her worry. "Sherlock, he's….he's not been keeping well. Maybe it's not the best time to see him." 

John's stomach dropped- not because she'd had said that he probably shouldn't meet Sherlock, but because he was 'ill', which John understood from the uncomfortable look on the landlady's face, and Lestrade's hint the other day, was code for 'using drugs'. 

 

"That's fine. I'm a friend, may be I can help." John tried to coerce her into letting him go inside. 

 

"But you said that you'd come here in a case." It wasn't quite suspicion that laced her voice, it was more curiosity. 

"Well, I have come here for a case, but I'm also a friend." John knew it wasn't true in the actual sense of the word, but he was desperate to see Sherlock, and somehow help him-- the ineffable feeling of attachment to the man forcing him to do it. 

"Well, fine," she sighed, "I do think it will do him good to see a familiar face. Come upstairs with me." Then, as an almost afterthought, she added, "I'm Mrs Hudson, his landlady." And gave a tired smile. 

Oh, there it was. Mrs Hudson. 

"I'm John Watson." John smiled in return. 

Both of them climbed the flight of stairs, John significantly slowed down by his cane. Mrs Hudson gave a sympathetic look when she saw him struggling, "I have a bad hip." 

On top of the stairs, Mrs Hudson opened the door for him and gestured him inside. John hadn't known what it was that he should have expected,but it certainly wasn't this. 

The living room was an absolute mess, as if a hurricane had swept through it, leaving no object in its rightful position. Papers were strewn around almost at random, covering every chair and table, some even pinned to the wall. At the centre of it all, stood a long, lithe figure, with his back facing John, a skull in one hand and a pen in the other, shaking noticeably. The man was talking to someone- the skull, John realized- and John heard his voice before he saw his face. 

It was rich-- like silk, dark and deep and resounding. But it also had a feverish, manic edge to it as he talked, "Of course, Billy, if the neighbour was planting petunias it's obvious that the victim's brother did it. And if the red of the tie matches the handkerchief then her lipstick must-have also been the same shade. Like Jennifer Wilson-" 

The voice cut off abruptly, as the figure spun around and John got his first look at Sherlock Holmes. 

Weeks of drugs, sleeplessness and overall abuse of the body had made Sherlock Holmes look like hell- but somehow even hell could not make him less breathtaking.He looked dramatic in the dim lighting, half his face well lit, and the other half in shadows. His dark curls flew in the air as his head swerved, his cupid bow lips pursed in concentration and days old stubble making his cheekbones even sharper. 

But what affected John most of all, was his gaze. It was intense and burning and it seemed to physically pin John into his position, looking through every ruse and not missing a single detail. 

If John had to describe his experience in a word, it would have been: naked. 

It was the only word that could cover the way John felt under Sherlock's piercing eyes. He felt as though he'd been shed of all the walls he's made to protect himself and every facade he'd ever used was peeled off his skin like clothes. In fact, John would have felt less exposed without any clothes on. 

 

But he didn't feel humiliated or angry, but relieved- knowing that there were no facades to be put up, because none would work. 

 

Mrs Hudson said something about making some tea for John and went downstairs, as Sherlock walked towards John. 

 

The latter expected a "who are you?" Or a 'what do you want?' From the detective, instead, Sherlock gave a small smile of defeat and said, "Oh, it's you again." 

 

John was taken aback and confusion clouded his mind as he asked, "Sorry, what? I don't think I've ever met you before." 

Sherlock behaved as though he hadn't heard John and stepped closer. "It's been years since I met you. You had stopped appearing in my hallucinations a good six years ago, so why are you back now? And why," Sherlock was so close now, only inches away from John's face, but not touching, "have you changed?" 

"I'm not a hallucination," John's voice was surprisingly calm, even to himself, "and I don't think you were hallucinating about me. Like I said, I've never met you before." 

Sherlock waved an arm of dismissal, "Oh, all the other ones said that they weren't hallucinations too, but I learnt my lesson after the tenth time." He was now moving further away from John. 

"You've changed. Your limp has returned, you're married to a woman, you are now a full time doctor, don't you work for Mycroft anymore? Oh God and the moustache! What were you thinking? Additionally, the fire seems to have died out from your marriage and you also don't have any children." 

"I'm sorry, how did you know all of that about me?" John asked his heart racing as he recollected the first sentence of the recordings.  _ He knew everything. _

Sherlock's face scrunched up in confusion, before he shrugged and said, "I don't really know. My brain's terribly fast, it'll take me some time to catch up with it." Then Sherlock seemed to dismiss it entirely, going back to their earlier conversation with ease. 

"And I have met you before. Once. You said you cared about me because I was a little like your boyfriend. Yes," Sherlock stopped John's protest by putting out his hand, "I know that you said that he wasn't your boyfriend, only your flatmate, but I already told you, it was obvious he returned your feelings." 

"I don't have a flatmate. I never did. I really don't know what you're talking about." John said, trying to make at least some sense out of the whole ordeal. Was all of this just a result of Sherlock being high as a kite? 

Sherlock was about to retort, when something changed in him, his whole body shifting stance and a light returning to his eyes. He looked at John as if seeing him in a new light entirely. 

"I know how I deduced all of that now." Sherlock smiled in glee. 

"Oh, yeah, you deduce things from the most tiny details don't you? I read it in your website." John replied, glad that this conversation was going on a path that he could understand. 

"Oh," Sherlock made a small sound of surprise, "You like it?" 

Either Sherlock had stopped thinking that he was hallucination, or he regularly interacted with them, because now Sherlock waited for John's verdict, an eyebrow raised expectantly. 

"Um," John shifted his weight from his bad leg to his good one, "it was pretty clever actually, if a little unbelievable." He gave a shrug. 

"Unbelievable?" Sherlock huffed, as if scandalized by John's comment, "I'll prove it to you. How did I know all of that about you? I deduced it. Your limp. The last time I saw you, which really was the first time too, you had no limp, yet you appear to be completely at ease with it now and you are used to doing all your jobs efficiently despite it. This shows that it's been there for a long time, 7-8 years minimum. 

"Then there's your profession, the callousness on your hand, plus the meticulous care you give to your hygiene, combined with the odour of antiseptics usually used during medication suggest that you're a full time doctor, rather than the half time you used to do before. 

"The state of your marriage," Sherlock seemed to have no qualms about discussing John's marital life and proceeded to do so with no discretion, "is written all over you. Of course, its existence is apparent from the ring, though the wear and tear on it suggests eight to nine years time period, along with the tan line that was just visible under the ring. The fact that it's a woman is evident from the whiff of perfume that is added to your natural scent, though it's scarce presence also suggests that you haven't been intimate for a while. Your body is gradually growing out of shape, something you'd been more attentive about it you were regularly naked in front of someone.

"You have no kids. There are various signs and indications that parent carries, no matter what age their child is, of the fact that they have a child. You possess none of them. Therefore you have no progeny. " Sherlock finished his monologue with a dramatic flourish of his hand and was surprisingly not out of  breath. "Did I get anything wrong?" His features barely restrained the pride, sure that he was correct, and he looked on at John. 

John however, could only hear the rushing in his ears and fell the amazement and awe and disbelief and affection that pulsed through him. "That was amazing." He said breathlessly, in no way trying to hide just how bloody fantastic he thought the whole thing was. 

And yes this was just a hallucination, Sherlock thought, but he couldn't help the shock and warmth that intermingled in his nerves, the man's unabashed praise so foreign and astonishing. "You really think so?" There was only the smallest hint of nervousness in that steady voice. 

"Yes, it was extraordinary,  _ quite  _ extraordinary." John tried to moderate the adoration that now dripped from his voice, his sudden awareness of it making his cheeks turn pink. 

"Oh," Sherlock gulped, stepping closer to the doctor, when something occurred to him, "I don't even know your name. You didn't tell me on the day we met." 

John was once again puzzled by Sherlock's insistence that they'd met before, but answered the question anyway, "I'm John Watson." 

"John," Sherlock almost seemed to be testing the syllables on his tongue, his voice musing, "Good choice. It sounds so ordinary, common. Your preferred facade. But you," Sherlock walked up to John, until their faces were only inches apart, causing John's breath to hitch, "You're Not the least bit ordinary, are you, John Watson?" 

 

John was abruptly aware of how close and intoxicating Sherlock was, how his galaxy eyes were being rapidly consumed by dilating pupils and the fact that Mrs Hudson hadn't yet reappeared with the tea. "I don't know your last name either." John spoke, or at least tried to, his voice hoarse and cracking at the end. His grip on his cane tightened. 

 

"It's Sherlock Holmes." The detective replied, unmoved by the question. 

Slowly, almost gingerly, he lifted a hand to John's cheek and gently caressed it. Then, when John's skin made contact with his, he gasped in surprise and took a few steps backwards. 

"I was never able to touch- before." He whispered, eyes wide, unbelieving. "You can't be... real." He staggered backwards. John reached out to steady him instinctively, but Sherlock dodged his hand, looking horrified. 

John withdrew his hand like it had been singed. 

"I think I need another shot. I mean another cup of tea. Would you also like some tea?" Sherlock was already walking towards the kitchen, tremors visible all over him. John realized that his high was crashing. 

"Wait!" He called out, limp momentarily forgotten and dashing after the junkie, grabbing him by the arm. This time, he did not let go when Sherlock first flinched violently nor when the latter tried to twist free from the iron grip. 

"Look, John, I need to take another shot, I'm on a case. Well, not really," he rolled his eyes, "It's an old case gone cold, but I thought-" 

"No." John's voice was deadly calm and determined. "You aren't going to take any more than you already have. You have been using since what, five days now?" 

"Um, more than that actually, a week now." Sherlock's voice was matter-of-fact, with a touch of the dramatic. 

"Is it new cases you want?" John asked him, "because your friend, Detective Inspector Greg has some, but you haven't gone there to get them." 

Sherlock made a face of utter confusion, "Who is Greg?" He grimaced like he'd just said something disgusting. 

John gave Sherlock a puzzled look, "don't you know Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade? From Scotland Yard?" 

"Oh, Lestrade." Sherlock said, finally understanding, "why do you call him  _ Greg _ ?" He spoke the name as though it was an utterly ridiculous idea. 

"Because that's his name?" John was now convinced that Sherlock was very high and led him to the sofa as Sherlock gave him a disbelieving look. "Really? I think you're wrong John." 

"Maybe I am," John humored him blandly, "Either way, lay down on the couch and give me your phone. I need to call him." 

 

"No. You won't do that." Sherlock declared imperiously, even as John sat him down on the sofa. 

 

"Yes I will. You need to rest Sherlock." John said it in his best Captain Watson voice. 

If he was right, and Sherlock had been taking the drugs for mental stimulation, then as his high would crash, he would feel lethargic and the best cure to the fatigue would be a good nap. And even as John thought this, Sherlock swayed a little on the couch, the energy draining from his body and mind. 

"You haven't even eaten, I'm sure." John's voice was thick with disapproval. 

"Eating slows me down." Sherlock mumbled. 

"Fine, then don't eat, just go to sleep." It was a gentle yet firm suggestion and strong, calm hands laid Sherlock on the couch, letting his feet dangle off the edge, as his vision clouded and a warm buzzing filled his brain. Then, a hand frisked his pockets, during which time he irritably swatted it, until it finally withdrew, taking his phone along with it. The warmth that Sherlock had earlier felt ebbed away as the body that had been close to him moved farther and Sherlock groped in the air next to him until he found the hem of the shirt. 

"Stay," he mumbled to John, "if you aren't a hallucination, then stay." 

There was a pause, but the wave of heat once again flooded Sherlock's senses seconds later and he smiled. 

Minutes later, John watched the gentle rise and fall of the detective's chest and his peaceful face and the hand still reaching out for John, limp on the floor, and then looked away. He reminded himself, once again, that he'd come here for answers. Instead, John sighed, he'd ended up taking care of a junkie. 

He sighed and pulled up a chair that was near the black couch. It was strangely warm and comfortable and enclosed johns form as if it had been made specially for him.  _ God _ , John thought shaking his head, _ I need to stop thinking shit like this _ . 

He suddenly remembered Lestrade's request and picked up the phone that he'd extracted from Sherlock's pocket. He turned It on and searched his contacts for 'Lestrade' and pressed the call button. As the phone rang, John hoped that the DI would pick it up and held his breath until the rhythm of the ringing phone broke off with an abrupt click. 

"Sherlock," the relief in Greg's voice was apparent, and he continued with his tone significantly lighter, "I thought--" 

"It's me Greg," John said, trying not to feel awkward, "John Watson. We met the other day." 

"Oh yeah! John," worry edged itself into his words again, "why did you call me from Sherlock's phone?" 

"I came by at his place," John replied, looking at the sleeping form in front of him, "and I found that he was high As a kite. Been using for a week apparently." 

"Shit!" Lestrade cursed, "I'll have to call his brother. No interesting cases turn up in one week and he goes around shooting cocaine in his veins again." 

"His brother?" John echoed blankly, before he remembered the introduction that had been given in the clips, "oh the one who keeps spying on Sherlock and works in the government?" He asked. 

"Yeah, that one." There was a slight smile in Greg's voice, "Hey, I’ll try to be there in twenty minutes, okay?" He sounded hurried and panicked to John. 

"Yeah, sure. It's alright." John assured him. " Don't worry, I got the bastard to sleep on the couch for a while." There was a fondness in his tone that surprised even John himself and he realised he was probably not doing a very good job convincing Greg that he wasn't Sherlock's ex. 

"Oh, that's good. Thanks for calling me John, I'll be there as soon as I can." Greg seemed genuinely grateful and John wasn't sure what to say next. "Err, okay, bye." He said awkwardly. 

After he hung up, John stood up with his cane in his hand now that the limp had returned and walked around the room, looking at the various oddities in it. He held the skull that Sherlock had been talking to, looked at all the books and papers strewn around and at the plethora of objects that all somehow made up Sherlock Holmes. 

He looked into the kitchen then and grimaced at the used syringes that laid around, one even thrown in a tea cup.  _ Well that explains the 'tea code' _ , John thought wryly as anger bubbled up inside him. 

Why did Sherlock let his brain and body, the magnificence of which John had just seen, be destroyed in such a manner? He wanted to burn each and every evidence of Sherlock's destructive habit, make sure there wasn't a single atom of it left. 

Again, John's passionate affection for Sherlock disturbed him, and he was in the process of trying to moderate it, when his phone vibrated with a text. 

It was Sarah. 

_ How long will you be having drinks with your friend?  _

It wasn't a demand for John to come home, but a gentle reminder that she was back there waiting for him. It was enough to break John free from the heady drug that was Sherlock Holmes. For him to realise how completely he'd forgotten of a world and life beyond these four walls. 

_ I'll be home soon _ , he texted Sarah. 

Plus, John realized he'd have to make up a whole history for the friend he was supposed to be meeting. A wave of guilt washed through John, because it seemed too much like he was cheating on Sarah, all this hiding and lying. 

But John shook himself out of his desire to berate himself and indulge in his self hatred, because someone had to take care of Sherlock till Lestrade came. 

For reasons John could not understand, it was absolutely necessary for him to ensure that Sherlock was safe and away from drugs and he walked to the threshold of the flat, calling down the stairs, "Mrs Hudson!" 

A few minutes later, the landlady appeared on the last step of the staircase below, looking at John a little guiltily. "I thought I should leave you boys alone, you know, seeing that you're his boyfriend and all, I didn't want to interrupt." 

"What? Boyfriend? I'm not his boyfriend, Mrs Hudson." John tried to be calm and tried very hard not to blush, "can you please take care of him until Greg Lestrade comes? I need to go, and I don't think it's a good idea to leave him alone. His cocaine crash will leave him wanting more if he does wake up and we need to make sure that that doesn't happen." 

"Oh sure dear," Mrs Hudson said with a smile, "I'm so glad you came. He seems to listen to you, you know." 

John knew that he really shouldn't feel proud or good about it, but the fact that Sherlock didn't listen to anyone else, and yet obeyed John, made a warm and pleasant feeling well up in his chest that he wasn't too keen to inspect. 

"I'll be up in a minute." Mrs Hudson told him and then disappeared, leaving John alone to say goodbye to a sleeping Sherlock. 

"Bye Sherlock," John said even though he wouldn't be heard. It was hard to leave him there. Now that John knew he was real, now that he'd met the man, John wanted to stay longer, and know more about him, and he knew it just wasn't about the answers. 

And so he decided. "I’ll drop by tomorrow morning, okay?" 

Of course, there was no response to this and John silently left the room, meeting Mrs Hudson at the bottom step. He was unable to contain his smile as she hugged him in farewell, still convinced that he was Sherlock's lover. 

Some things, it seems, remain unchanged even in different realities. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter is up!!! And fuck I'm writing so much in a chapter, is it too long? I hope it isn't. 
> 
> Anyways I thoroughly enjoyed putting John in one of the most frustrating situations ever: yOu have to make a decision, but someone else or some circumstance makes it for you, and you suddenly realize what you wanted all along. And the SHEER AMOUNT OF FRUSTRATION that follows. 
> 
> Also, yes, I imagined that Sherlock would think about John later also, the speech that John made would make him pause in hesitation every time before he used.
> 
> Also, please give kudos and comments if you liked this one!!


	7. We've Met Before... In Another Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally comes to Sherlock with his case, all the while trying to hide the thoughts stirring up within his brain. And heart.

John observed the lather of the shaving cream that he'd applied on his face, the pink of his lips a startling contrast to the white of his cheeks and chin. His hand hovered above the mass of hair in his moustache, debating whether or not he should shave it off. Sherlock's comment on his facial hair had bothered John more than he would have liked to admit. 

Sherlock. 

Fucking hell. 

The memory surged into his brain, thousands of neurons making and breaking connections in the space of a heartbeat. And the more he tried to suppress it, the more vividly it came back to him. 

Last night, when he'd returned from his meeting with Sherlock, he'd found Sarah sitting on the couch, watching crap telly and drinking wine straight from the bottle. She was tipsy and giggling, grabbing John by his collar, and her hands kept sneaking under his shirt, seeking to go below the waistband of his trousers. 

At first when John mumbled his displeasure, she drunkenly giggled at him, not taking the clue, as she tried to aim at and missed John's lips as she covered him in little kisses. 

The second time John tried to push her off, not quite at peace with his own emotions. He didn't want to treat Sarah like a fuckbuddy and it seemed unfair for Sarah to have him while his head was puzzling over someone else. 

Again, it felt a bit like cheating.

But when he did try to bring some physical distance between them, Sarah looked hurt and what she couldn't tell John sober, she managed with the alcohol in her veins. "What happened to us John? What did we do wrong?" She mumbled to him, words slurring and her voice uneven. 

And she looked young and unprepared, so dismayed, looking for the root of it all while the world swayed under her feet. 

And John realized how much she needed this. How much they both needed it, a confirmation to a question silently asked: Do you still want me? Do you still love me? 

He'd kissed her then, slowly and deeply, his heart swelling and clenching at once. The night after was soft and slow and warm, hands on each other's bodies', each caress so close to an apology, each gasp tainted with the regret: We should have done better. 

And then John was close, the edge of his vision going white, his body pumping in and out of her's rhythmically. But he needed something a bit more to push him over the edge, something to-- 

Before he could stop it, he saw-- lush brown curls and those celestial irises, consuming him, and that voice, deep and dark as a sin, whispering his name: "John." The phantom voice reverberated through him, sending shivers rippling down his body. And then he came-- pulsing and almost painful, a cry strangled in his throat, the fluid rushing from his cock fast and slick. 

As he panted, his racing heart slowing down, sweat cooled on his skin and he felt clammy and uncomfortable as realisation dawned on him of what he'd done. 

John pulled himself out of the memory, determined on pushing it away and failing miserably. He consoled himself, because it wasn't uncommon to fantasize about someone else while you were in bed with your partner. Granted the fact that it had pushed him to release was not very good, but the thing that John most feared was there being things more than attraction. He'd fallen for him once and it could happen again. 

Fuck. 

John was so tired from all the buzzing in his head and the confusion around him. 

His hand was still near his moustache. Really, he'd been about to shave it off, Sherlock's comment about it stung and he was beginning to feel a little self conscious about the whole thing. 

He remembered how Sherlock acted like he'd known him from before and the flatmate he'd been talking about. It struck John suddenly, that Sherlock's description had been a lot like the John in the audio recordings and perhaps that was the John he'd met. 

But how was that even possible? Fucking hell. 

John gave up on the topic entirely and went on to decide the fate of his moustache. 

He was about to put the razor to skin, when he remembered that the other John didn't have a moustache. It was like a tell, to distinguish that John from this one. Somehow, the fact that it separated his own identity form the man in the recordings comforted him. 

He realized that he somehow viewed it as a shield: protection from the fear that he'd recently banished from his conscious mind. It was extremely silly and yet John's hand couldn't bridge the small gap between the blade and the facial hair. 

He set the razor down with a frustrated sigh. 

 

Whatever he was about to do next was cut short by Sarah, fresh from the bath, looking a lot better than her hungover self form the earlier part of the morning. 

 

"Hello," she smiled at him, "Yes, I do feel better." She said in reply to John's questioning quirk of an eyebrow. As John picked up the razor to shave the rest of his face, Sarah nudged him a bit to get the bottle of moisturizer from the cabinet beside him, "What are you going to do today?" 

 

It was a Sunday, and they had nothing in particular to do- well John did, he had to visit Baker Street again, but he couldn't tell Sarah that. So he quickly thought of an excuse. "I'm going to get you a present." He said with a small smile-- it was as much as the sharp blade allowed him. 

 

"Oooh, spoiled the surprise for me, eh?"'she asked good naturedly. 

 

John shrugged. Yes it was ruining the surprise, but John was running out of excuses and this seemed to do for now. They worked at the same place, it was difficult to escape unobserved. 

 

_ Christ _ , John thought, it all really did sound like he was having an affair. 

 

"Alright." she hesitated a bit. "John about last night..." she stopped and shook her head. 

 

"What about it?" John's tone could have been teasing, but the expression on her face made him refrain from doing so. 

 

"Nothing. Sorry, I don't know what I was saying, it's nothing." 

 

A cold feeling washed over him, like someone had poured icy water down his spine. 

Fear seized him like a vice, that he'd probably said Sherlock's name last.night or that somehow she knew what had pushed him over the edge to an orgasm. He tried to implore her to talk about it, but she just gave him a weak smile and shook her head. 

As the time came to leave for baker street, John started becoming a bit nervous, afraid that Sarah would somehow know he was lying. But she was not suspecting and that did add to John's guilt about the whole thing. 

Still, by the time he was out the door, he was so worked up about it, and also about the prospect of meeting a clean Sherlock, that he forgot to take the clothes, cap, glasses, and wristband with him. He remembered halfway through the cab ride, but knew it would look suspicious if he went back for it.  So letting it go, John hobbled up the steps of 221 Baker Street and was about to ring the bell, when  the door opened from the other side, a disgruntled looking Lestrade appearing from behind it. 

He brightened a little on seeing John, "Hey, John, isn't it?" He extended his hand. 

"Yeah, and you're Greg Lestrade." John took the offered hand and gave it a firm shake. 

Two officers carrying lots of evidence bags walked past them out of the building and Greg grimaced at it when John looked at them questioningly. 

"Cleaning the flat. Getting rid of the coke. Mycroft's orders." He smiled gratefully, "thanks for calling me, by the way." 

When John murmured his 'no problem', Greg ran a hand through his hair, and sighed, "I worry about him. He says he only takes it for 'mental stimulation'," Greg made air quotes, "but we know the truth." He talked as if John knew it too and John supposed Greg really did think he was Sherlock's lover- current or ex. Then he recovered himself, his slumped shoulders and back ramrod straight, in a matter of seconds. 

"Anyways, mate, you go meet him, I'll get going." He patted John's shoulder and left, the crisp morning wind messing up his salt and pepper hair. John limped inside and walked up the stairs past a few more officers, all of them looking none too happy. 

"The freak keeps getting high and we have to keep picking up the garbage. It's a surprise there isn't a permanent bed for him at the rehab." An officer grumbled, making no effort to keep his voice down. The other nodded in agreement. 

Freak. 

There it was again.Sally from the Yard had said it and now these people did too. A rush of anger pulsed through John. He couldn't understand how they couldn't see the sheer brilliance of the man or how they could bear to be so cruel to him. 

When John walked into 221 B, he found Sherlock sitting in a black leather chair sipping tea-- the actual one, not drugs-- and passing scathing remarks to an officer named 'Anderson', who was clearing up the last bits of the drugs. 

Sherlock was clean shaven and dressed in a tailored suit, his curls damp from the shower. He looked almost artistically beautiful in the bright morning sunlight. He stopped his beratings midway when he saw John, and kept looking at him for a second longer, a bit stunned. Then he murmured something like "Not a hallucination, then." 

Audibly, he said, "Hello John. I should probably thank you for this." He lifted his tea cup higher in mock gratitude. 

"You should, actually." John said, quirking an eyebrow, "You were off your tits on drugs, a few more days, would have probably died from an OD." An unpleasant feeling crept up John's chest at this thought. 

"Quite right." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "So a wife? Did it not work out with your boyfriend?" 

John shot him an exasperated look, and gave Anderson a shrug as if he didn't quite know what Sherlock was on about either. Anderson just muttered something like 'freak', and exited the room. 

"Sherlock," John said, "I already told you. I don't know who you're talking about, I never had a flatmate or boyfriend and I've never met you before yesterday." 

Sherlock looked a bit disconcerted by this "And you've stopped working for Mycroft." 

 

John was more and more perplexed now, "Sherlock, I never worked for your brother. I was an army doctor, before I came back to London and became a general practitioner." 

"Not possible." Sherlock hissed, getting more and more intrigued by the minute. "Wait," he commanded and brought out his phone. He dialed a number and gave a pained expression as he waited for the other party to respond, as if the call was a disgusting necessity. 

"Mycroft," Sherlock spit out after only a few seconds, "did someone with the name of John Watson ever work for you?" There was a pause in which Sherlock impatiently tapped his feet. 

There was a reply from the other end and Sherlock's features contorted in disbelief. "Fine." He said and abruptly but the call. He turned back to John. 

"So John Hamish Watson, apparently you're telling the truth. Mycroft tired to match up your name and face, But no record." He stared at John intently. 

John had a lot of questions, mainly how Sherlock knew his middle name and how did Mycroft had his picture, but he let it go. 

"Then who  _ did  _ I meet nine years ago, at St Bart's? The cap and glasses where most assuredly Mycroft's and it was you that I met." He wrinkled his nose in confusion. 

John thought for a plausible explanation for this."Look, I think that you did meet me all those years ago, but it was a different me. From another..." he fumbled for a word, "Universe." He shrugged at Sherlock's irritated expression. 

"Honestly John, it's more likely that you have multiple personality disorder." 

"Then how can you explain the cap and glasses?" John asked triumphantly. Sherlock looked at him, thinking hard and then finally gave up with a sigh. "And I suppose you have proof for your own theory?" 

"Yes," John said with a smile. He went on to tell Sherlock about the fall, how he'd woken up to new clothes, accessories and the phone which had two recordings. 

"Do you have the clothes, cap and other things?" Sherlock asked after John had finished his acount of events. He leaned forward, expecting John to bring them out. 

"Actually," John said sheepishly, "I forgot it at home. But," he added, as he saw Sherlock's face fall. "I have the phone and recordings." 

"Oh," Sherlock's face brightened with interest, "What exactly is in the recordings?" 

"Well, it's my voice that's being recorded. It's like a goodbye note, really. I'm just talking about the life I had with you in Baker Street and everything." Sherlock looked like he had a lot of questions, but decided to stall them till after hearing the clips. 

John pressed play, and once again his voice came from the speakers. " _ He knew _ ." 

The Phone John talked all about the day they met and when he reached the part where Sherlock had cured his limp, the John still using the cane looked at the long stick, his left hand clenched momentarily into a fist. "Your limp can be cured like that, you know." Sherlock said in a matter of fact voice. "After all it's only psychosomatic." 

John only shrugged in response. In truth, his heart rose at the thought of not having to use it. But he had been using it for so long, it was almost a part of him. He unwittingly thought that it was too late, the limp would stick with him. 

Sherlock only stared at John with some mild curiosity, but returned his attention back to the narration. 

And then it went on, with a few comments from the John outside the mobile, until they reached the conclusion of a study in pink, where John talked about shooting the cabbie. Sherlock, visibly confused, indicated John to stop the clip by raising a hand. 

"Wait. That wasn't how the case ended. Nobody shot the cabbie. I did pick a pill bottle, but in reality, the poison was in the water they gulped it down with. All mine did was render me a few minutes unconscious." Sherlock then made a distasteful noise, "Lestrade came in too late, the killer was able to leave. He told me that his boss sent me his greetings before I passed out." When John looked extremely intrigued, Sherlock added, "the boss' name was Moriarty ." 

"Oh." John said.He tried to imagine the night the way Sherlock described it. He couldn't, the first version had firmly rooted itself in John's mind. 

Then, something subtly changed in Sherlock's expression. It seemed- softer. "You shot a man for me." He sounded fascinated and a little disbelieving, as if he thought it impossible that anyone would do that for him. 

John remembered the expression on his face the evening before, when John had told him that his deductions were brilliant. He'd looked so young, so vulnerable and genuinely surprised. 

John suddenly thought that he was beginning to understand why he'd killed a man to save Sherlock's life. 

"Yeah," John replied awkwardly, "I did. Well, not me, exactly. The other me." Sherlock hummed and asked John to continue the recording. 

John discreetly skipped a small part of the recording, the few seconds where John had talked about how Sherlock had saved him. He felt distinctly uncomfortable about Sherlock knowing it. "That's the end of the first one." John said. 

Sherlock, without a word, motioned him to begin with the other one. 

Then they sat in silence as the second clip began and the story resumed, listening as a new world grew around them, the landlady- Mrs Hudson, Greg and the pathologist- Molly Hooper, according to Sherlock. 

And then, there was the Woman. Quite frankly, John wanted to skip that part to, from annoyance at the Woman due to some ineffable reason. But he knew he couldn't and so he let it play. 

 

As the Woman came to life, a whip in her hand grinning at Sherlock and shooting a knowing look towards John, Sherlock dismissed her with a wave of his hand. "Ridiculous. I cannot possibly have any affection for 'the Woman'." He made air quotes. "And what can she possibly mean by 'Look at us both'?" 

 

Though he wanted it to be, Sherlock's denial that he could ever feel anything for her wasn't reassuring John all that much. "How can you be so sure?" He asked, "I mean you haven't even met her." 

 

"Because I say so." Came the sharp reply and they left it at that. 

When John went on to talk about Sherlock's disappearance, the man in question steepled his palms and looked at John intently. "Doesn't seem very likely. Why would I leave you in the dark? You were obviously a good friend and confidant. Oh," his eyes glimmered with understanding, "I was saving you." 

"What?" John asked, clearly confused by the conclusion he'd drawn. 

"Think John. You'd been my most helpful ally in disappearing, yet I didn't enlist your help. Rather I left you. Obviously I was seeking to protect you from whatever adversary was there." Then his mouth twisted into something apologetic. "Though I can make out that your other self was substantially affected and not for the better." 

That was an understatement, John thought. He sounded bloody devastated from what John could hear. Again, their eyes met, and both of them hurriedly looked away, clearing their throats. 

They let the John from the phone fill in the awkward silence. 

And then John talked about his daughter that he was raising with Sherlock, and a look of horror and bewilderment crossed Sherlock's features. "A daughter? A child? I was raising a human baby?" 

"With me, yes, and apparently you were very fond of her and she of you." John grinned, enjoying Sherlock's mortification. 

"John," Sherlock berated him, "does all of this look like place where you could keep a child?" He asked, gesturing to their surrounding.

John looked around at the mess, the harmful substances and sharp objects and could not help but agree. It certainly didn't look like somewhere you would want to leave a toddler. "I guess you're right. But the truth is you did raise a child here with me." John said. 

"It's not confirmed that this the truth. You could have gotten very drunk or very high one day and dreamt all this up." Sherlock replied. 

"No it can't have been." John insisted, "I couldn't have possibly known anything about the serial killer case, or even where you lived. I had to ask Greg Lestrade to give me your address." Sherlock gave John a glare, as if he was committing a gross error in daring contradict him. John just gave him a cheeky grin. 

They reached towards the end of the recording, the John listening to it also feeling his throat well up as he heard the last few declarations. He didn't look up at Sherlock, he couldn't meet his eye. 

 

_ "You know, if I'd never met you, I'd never believe you even existed. It was a privilege knowing you. "  _

 

John had to agree to that. Before he'd accidentally heard Lestrade say his name, he had been absolutely convinced that Sherlock was just a figment of his imagination. 

 

He was simply too good to be true. 

Then there was a period of silence, before the confession, and John's heart almost skipped a beat as he hastily paused the clip. "That's all. The clip is over." He announced, hoping to sound convincing. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, suspicion clouding his features for a few seconds and then was gone as soon as it had come. He cleared his throat a little. 

"So you and I were very good friends then?" He asked awkwardly, recollecting the emotional speech that John had given in the end, with such great praise and search earnest devotion as Sherlock had never had directed to himself. 

"Yeah, that's what I gathered too." John tried his best to sound casual. Sherlock could not know about the love declaration. 

Both of them looked up at the same moment, their eyes meeting and then swiftly darted away. It was perhaps John's hopeful thinking, but Sherlock seemed a bit embarrassed at being caught too, as if he also had a secret with him. 

They sat a few moments, silent for the lack of having anything else to say, and John was about to suggest he leave, when there was the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. 

Mrs Hudson poked her head in, and positively beamed on seeing John. 

"John, hello darling. I'm so glad you came up to meet him. Some kisses and hugs will do him good and help him lay off the cocaine." She still seemed to be harboring the illusion that the two were a couple, and came closer to John, evidently not about the end the conversation. 

"And you never told me what you do, I mean for a living you know. In fact, I didn't know about your existence at all until yesterday. He was very secretive about it I expect." She winked at Sherlock with a knowing smile. "Oh, and don't you be shy about, you know, touching him. It won't disturb me." She smiled coyly at John. 

In all this time she hadn't given Sherlock or John any opportunity to interrupt or deny the presumptions she'd made and John blushed slightly at her open proposal. 

He was about to open his mouth when Sherlock beat him to it. "Do tell me Mrs Hudson, has Mr Chatterjee told you at all, about his wife in Doncaster yet?" His tone was bored, as if it was of no consequence and Mrs Hudson gave a little cry of astonishing. 

"Sherlock!" She reprimanded him, "this is really no way to talk to me. I shall have to have a chat with your mother. There are a good few things I'd like to ask her." 

"Don't we all? I have a list." Sherlock sounded amused, "and Mycroft has a file." 

Mrs Hudson huffed, but Sherlock's deduction had done its job and she quickly bustled downstairs, presumably to ask Mr Chatterjee some questions. Once she was gone, John looked at Sherlock, who was looking very proud and triumphant, with a disapproving glare. 

Sherlock's face shifted the slightest, a fake frown on his lips, "What?" He asked innocently. 

"You know what, Sherlock." John looked pointedly at the door to the flat. 

"Bit not good?" Sherlock asked him and only by careful examination could John see the underlying genuine need for John's opinion. 

"Yes," John said, in a more kinder voice, "a bit not good." It was a phrase you'd use with a child, but John thought fondly that in some matters Sherlock did seem to have the unfiltered curiosity of a child. He barely managed to hide his smile. 

Then they heard a loud shout from downstairs and both of them sneaked a glance at each other, before they simultaneously burst into giggles. 

"Really Sherlock? A wife in Doncaster? Was that even true?" John asked between giggles. 

"Oh, absolutely. There's actually another in Bradford too, but that's for another day." 

And with that they burst into a fresh round of laughter, not quite recovering till minutes after, when their breaths began to heave form all the laughing. 

John had a rather pleasant feeling in his brain and heart, a bit lightheaded from all the mirth, and he thought that Sherlock's laughter was very nice and that he should say something to make him laugh again. 

Sherlock thought, personally, that smiling made all the right lines stand out in John's face, and made him years younger, despite his horrid moustache. 

Their laughter died out as they stared at each other, fascination making itself known in their faces and body language. John gulped, an alarm ringing in the back of his mind, reminding himself why he'd come here. For the answers. Only the answers. 

He could no longer bear to look at Sherlock's face, how the sunlight made his eyes shine a myriad of colours, how his cupid bow lips were slightly apart, how a wild curl had placed itself squarely between his eyes, for which John had to greatly restrain himself from tucking away. 

Abruptly, he stood up and attempted to shake Sherlock's hand in farewell before doing a double take. 

Sherlock had stood up too and now both of them wondered how one was to bid another goodbye, when they had the knowledge of how close they'd been in another lifetime. 

It was very true that the more you like someone the first time you meet, the harder it is to bid goodbye. Whatever do you say? How do you convey a "I hope we meet again very soon, it was bloody fantastic to know you exist. " 

And so they settled for a wave of hands and verbal goodbyes, and it occurred to each, suddenly, that it was a good thing John hadn't brought the clothes and cap along. 

It meant another visit to Baker Street.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And chapter 7!!!!  
> They've finally had the real conversation, and Mrs Hudson is no longer with Mr Chatterjee. 
> 
> Also, the sex John and Sarah have was a sort of apology sex??? And yes, Sarah is acting a bit odd, I wonder why???
> 
> My boys are doing famously, those idiots. And John did try to hide his confession, but was he successful?
> 
> And for those of you who are wondering where the fuck has Mycroft gone, he'll be there soon. 
> 
> Until then, please leave kudos or comments or constructive criticism. Thanks!!


	8. Big Brother Is Watching You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Mycroft and discovers an incriminating detail that Sarah remembered about last night.

John was a bit frustrated with the long line at the bookshop, but he supposed that he should be happy knowing that more people were visiting the bookstore. It was surely welcome break from their screens. 

When John's turn finally came around, the man at the register gave him a suspicious look. Well, he did have good reason. John had just bought the same book he'd bought not a week ago. Frankly he was surprised the cash register guy even remembered him, but John supposed he'd been awarded some nickname to lend amusement to the guy's life. 

The desperate dude trying to woo his wife with poetry. 

Either way, the man- Freddie- as the tag said, didn't really care much about it, because he quickly finished the transaction, handing John his receipt and was already moving on to the next customer. As John idly glanced at the receipt, he suddenly noticed his name on it. 

It was printed at the end of the expenses. 'Hello, Dr John Watson.'  It read. 

Immediately, John turned around and walked upto Freddie again. "Hey, sorry, how did you know my name?" He asked, trying not to feel unsettled, reassuring himself that it probably had some simple explanation. The thing was, he'd paid both times in cash, without mentioning at all his name, occupation or really anything about him to any one round here. 

Freddie looked up at him dubiously. "Sorry, what?" 

"My name, it's on the receipt, how?" John was a bit irritated at the lack of interest of attention the cashier paid. He handed the man the receipt. 

"No idea, mate." Freddie merely shrugged his shoulders,apparently feeling no further obligation to appear surprised. "Her receipt turned out just fine." He waved a piece of paper in front of John. The woman to whom it presumably belonged was standing at the counter, looking impatient. Freddie made no other comments or efforts to figure out why it happened and returned to his job with an attitude that was as lackluster as before. 

 

Shaking his head in annoyance, John was about to mutter to himself a remark on the utter lack of work ethics in the new generation, when he checked himself. God, he was getting old. 

 

As he stepped outside, he pulled out his phone and noticed a text from Sarah. 

 

_ Going to meet friends, be back by lunch.  _ Sent 10:55. 

_ Strange, _ John thought, he would have at least expected a call from Sarah if she was going out so suddenly. He decided he'd probably give her a ring when he reached home. 

John walked past the street he'd taken, that eventful day, a few days ago, when he'd taken down a man trying to mug him. And also, less importantly, a sarcastic region of his brain brought up, the day he had confirmation of Sherlock Holmes' existence. 

He was contemplating the serious happenstance that had occurred for him to meet Greg, when the telephone in the nearby booth rang. 

John looked at it curiously. There was no one in the booth. There were other passersby around him, but they abandoned it after a quick glance. John followed suit. 

A few metres away, another telephone rang loudly, the booth once again, intriguingly empty. 

This time something akin to fear crept up John's spine, but he ignored it, trying to dismiss it as a bizarre coincidence. 

When the third phone rang, however, John was forced to abandon the route to his flat and instead went inside the booth. He flexed his hand before he picked up the receiver and placed it to his ear. He waited in silence with bated breath. 

"Doctor Watson" A polite voice came from the telephone, a rich public school accent that reminded John of Sherlock, "I presume you have already received my message." 

"What message?" John demanded, a bit gruffly, "and who are you? How are you doing this?" 

The man on the other end completely ignored his last two questions, "Oh the receipt. I believe I sent you a message in greeting." The voice was very cool and very slow and deliberate, in a manner that was both intimidating and irritating. 

"What do you want?" John asked, willing himself in I remain calm. 

"I want you to get into the car that is parked outside the phone booth. Do not attempt to struggle or make any unwanted moves. As you can see, if you turn your head to the upper left corner of the building beside you, and the opposite side of the road, you are being observed very carefully." 

John turned his head in those directions, and found two cameras, which moved themselves to focus on him, a deliberate attempt to scare him. 

John put the receiver down with a loud bang,without uttering another word and awkwardly limped out of the booth, to find a long black car waiting for him. The car door promptly opened as he walked closer, and he slid inside, trying to remind himself how improper it was to feel excited in a time like this.

Next to him in the back of the car, was a lady in a black suit and skirt, furiously typing away on her phone. She looked up from her typing to give a curt nod to John, before frowning and returning to the screen. John couldn't see the driver, because of the separation of the front seats from the rest of the car by a roll down window, which was an impenetrable black barrier between them. 

All this made John panic slightly, reminding himself of the foolishness of getting into a stranger’s car unarmed. He also had no idea where he was being taken to. So he turned to the woman beside him for help. 

John cleared his throat twice, muttered an 'excuse me', but was decidedly ignored by the lady. John even put out his hand to poke her to get her attention, but got no response at all. It was a bit humiliating, really, to be treated as though he was indivisible. 

John sighed, a bit louder than usual in a last attempt to rouse the woman from her phone. Again, it was steadfastly ignored. 

This left John with nothing to do except try to look out of the windows, which were tinted black from both sides,to prevent him from knowing where they were going. 

At long last, the car stopped, and the woman finally looked up from her gadget, looking at John with a bit of surprise, as if she'd forgotten he was even there. 

Someone, presumably the driver, opened the car door for John to exit the vehicle. John stepped outside and realised that he was in a parking lot of sorts, with a few cars parked here and there, but mostly looking abandoned. 

"Straight ahead." The woman pointed towards the dark corridor on John's left. She gave him a polite smile. Seeing that he had no other option, John nodded and gave a weak smile."Okay." 

He held tight on to his cane, which was a little difficult, because his clammy fingers made the handle slippery, and walked forwards. 

He could make out the outline of a large empty space, in the middle of which was a chair. As he got closer, a man stepped out from the shadows, face dark with shadows in the dim light of the parking lot, twirling an umbrella in his hand. From what John could decipher, he was a tall man, with what looked like a permanent sneer on his face, dressed in an expensive looking suit, that was all too reminiscent of Sherlock. 

"Hello, once again, Dr Watson. I see that you're a wise man- you came here without much of a fight. You were heading towards home from Baker Street, I believe." The man looked curiously at John. 

John merely looked at him perplexed, wondering how the man knew all of this and what he could possibly have to go with someone as commonplace as John. 

" Doctor Watson," The man asked out of the blue, evidently unable to control his curiosity, "What exactly is the nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes? You asked for his addresses from Gregory Lestrade the day before yesterday and came to visit him last night and helped him stop abusing cocaine by calling Gregory. Today, you once again visited him.

"Until two days earlier, you had never so much as glanced at him and now I find you prying into his personal life, with surprisingly no opposition from him. Hence my question. " 

 

John already didn't like the aura of the man, his every moment seemed to be to look down upon John and intimidate him. To add to it, he had very bluntly put forward a question and laid down facts that John did not want to face at the moment and so John didn't feel the need to comply to the man's request for answers. 

 

"I could be wrong," John replied, feeling his irritation because of the man growing larger by the second, "but it is none of your business.” John didn't see how he could explain all that had happened to him without sounding like a maniac. 

 

"It is, actually," the man seemed completely unaffected in any way by John's comment. 

 

"It really couldn't." John was desperately trying to end the conversation. This shady figure snooping on Sherlock made him quite uneasy. 

 

The man sighed in defeat, realising that John was not about to give away his secrets. "Whatever may be your reasons, if you continue to keep appearances with Sherlock, I'd pay you a good amount to give me some information. Nothing you'd feel uncomfortable with." 

 

At this point John dryly muttered 'good to know I don't have to root through his underwear drawer', for which he received a withering look and "Just basic information." 

 

_ Oh _ , it dawned on John _ , this is probably some kind of rival or enemy wanting dirt on Sherlock _ . John decided, almost without thinking, that he wouldn't give this shady guy the satisfaction, and stayed silent. 

 

When John did not seem to be inclined to take up his offer, the man emphasized, "For a meaningful sum of money." 

 

"Can I go now?" Impatience shone out in John’s voice. 

 

"No, not yet. I also wanted to know, Doctor Watson, if there was something “going on” ,as they say, between you two." The man asked in delicate and tones, though there was a blatant lack of sincerity in them. 

 

John, even amidst his growing dislike for the man, and righteous indignation, could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. 

 

"After all, you have a wife. Sarah Sawyer, a GP who works in the same clinic as you do ." 

 

Until now, John wasn't really worried. He was confident he could defend himself well from whatever this strange man seemed to throw at him. But bringing Sarah into the picture wasn't something he could afford. 

 

Both of them stared at each other intensely, the mysterious man with cold intellect and intrigue, and John with open defiance. 

 

That is, until, there was the sound of a cell phone by vibrating. The silence in the parking lot had been intense enough for the sound to become quite audible, and with a disdainful look at the caller, John's captor picked up the phone. 

 

"Yes? What is it that you want?" He asked, irritation laced into his polite posh accent. A smug look crossed his features. "I see. I didn't know you'd be interested in a  _ goldfish _ .”

 

There was some talking from the other end. 

 

"But," there was mock hesitation in his captor’s tone, "it will be quite some work getting it. There would have to be some compensation for it." John could hear some loud swearing in the other end in protest, but the man in front of him was adamant. 

 

There was a brief discussion and finally they reached a conclusion. "Very well. The information will be sent to you. The Governor will contact you for the compensation tomorrow. Goodbye." He cut the call with every look of smug satisfaction on his features. 

John, on the other hand, was distinctly uncomfortable. His kidnapper was clearly a person with high connections, as the mention of the Governor proved, and John didn't want to risk Sarah's safety at any cost. 

"Who are you?" He asked, trying to keep his voice calm. 

"If you asked Sherlock, he'd probably say his 'arch nemesis'." The man twirled his umbrella a bit. Oh, John thought, just like he'd suspected, perhaps an unhappy criminal, looking for revenge. 

"And if I asked you?" John was running out of patience to keep up with the man's mysterious way of talking. It was his way of saying 'cut the bullshit' politely. 

"Someone who is deeply concerned about him." The man replied,still enigmatic. 

John gave man a tired look, apparently done with this conversation, and then turned to walk away. 

"If you change your mind, do let me know." Sherlock's well wisher, as he'd now discovered, called behind him, still every bit as smug as he was at the beginning of the conversation. 

John stopped. He wanted to point out that the man hadn't really given him a way to contact him, but decided it would sound like he meant to contact him- which he most certainly did not want to do. 

The arch nemesis seems to have read John's mind, because he said, "You're already aware of my-- control over the surveillance in the city. A message sent over any camera in London will reach me. Goodbye, doctor Watson." The man nodded his head in farewell, while John stood deliberately still. He really wasn't in the mood for social niceties, however fake. 

Then he turned around towards the path he'd come from and walked away, a little more stiffly and self aware than usual. He'd wanted to display strength and power in his body language, but the cane wasn't really boosting his confidence much. 

At the exit, he found the same assistant absorbed in her typing and she led him to the long black car, which he hoped was driving towards home. Ten minutes later, he was dropped off at the entrance of his building and John watched the car drive away with a wary look. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand chapter 8!!!  
> Yup. John met Mycroft, they were interrupted, but it ended fine. I wonder how will John feel when he finds out that it was MYCROFT that kidnapped him. 
> 
> Anyway, John and Sarah are slowly coming to terms with their sort of failed marriage. In a way, I believe that there was a chance they could have somehow salvaged their marriage, but with Sherlock there ,even that chance will be gone. 
> 
> And about the main storyline, I think we'll be coming down to the action soon. Stay tuned!!!
> 
> P.s.please give kudos, comments or constructive criticism if you like the story!


	9. Captain John Hamish Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock meet again. This time, at Angelos, and simultaneously do a stakeout to catch a criminal.

Five days later, John, carrying a small backpack, once again stood at the doorstep of Baker Street, at six in the evening. The sky was light now, but the darkness of the night was slowly creeping up from the edges.

It had been fiive very long and treacherous days. 

They had been filled with mundane work at the clinic, and an evening at the cinema with Sarah. 

Their marriage had come to an awkward stalemate, and both of them had realised with considerable shame, that they had become so used to life with each other, that it seemed impossible to live without each other. It really seemed as though their age was catching up to them. 

The problem was that it was just so  _ easy  _ to let things be the way they were-- after all, they'd been living this way for a long time now, and the only reason either of them had  _ noticed  _ anything was wrong was on the day that-- John sighed, again confronted with the obvious fact-- Sherlock was introduced in his life. 

And yet, somehow John couldn't let things stay the way they were. Sherlock had brought along with him the realization that John could actually have a life he would both enjoy  _ and  _ want. That such a life was possible. 

And with it came the inevitable reminder, every time John was with Sarah, of how different their life was from paradise. 

John was almost sure of what he wanted, but couldn't bring himself to tell Sarah about it. It made him feel very guilty: she had openly talked about her problem, but he chickened out of it.

  In the darkest corners of his brain, where deep rooted fears and beliefs thrived, John wasn't sure that he could ever change. That he could ever get the life he wanted. That he even deserved a chance at happiness like that. 

But most of all, it was a fear that had recently made itself known to him: that it was all a sham, a magic trick. That there was no such person as Sherlock, or even if there was, John could never bring him happiness.

After all, he only had two recordings in some mobile phone to back up everything he knows about Sherlock. And everytime he thought about it, he started to feel bewildered by the ridiculousness of the whole thing and found himself spiralling in on himself.

No, he had to focus. He was here to meet Sherlock, and that's what he was going to do. He raised his hand to ring the bell, when the door suddenly opened from the inside.

Sherlock emerged from behind it, all wrapped up in his coat and blue scarf. 

He looked up at John in surprise. "Oh hello John, I didn't expect to see you here."

"But I texted you saying that I would be coming." John told him, a bit confused.

"Ah yes!" Sherlock exclaimed, "I almost forgot. That's alright, you can join me."

"Join you where?" John asked.

"Well, I am going to do a stakeout. There's a criminal I want to catch, and I've heard that they'll be nearby today.

And with that, he stepped over the threshold of 221 Baker Street and onto the pavement. He started walking with quick long steps, so that John had no time to ask any further questions, nor a choice to do anything but follow him.

They walked for a few minutes, until they reached a restaurant named 'Angelo's'. Sherlock strode in with confidence and sat on a table next to the large window. John say opposite to him, and was just getting comfortable when a man with a jovial face walked up to their table. 

"Sherlock!" He grinned widely and patted Sherlock on the back. "Long time since I've seen you here. But no worries! It's all on the house. In fact," he said as he put the menus in front of them, "I'll get you a candle for the table. A bit more romantic, you know, for you and for your date!"

He hurried away swiftly, as John protested, "I'm not his date!"

Either Angelo did not hear John or did not care, because two minutes later, a candle was put in between the two, and an order of pasta was noted down for John. Sherlock, apparently, wasn’t having anything. 

"I hope you've remembered to bring the objects of interest this time?" Sherlock asked him with an arched eyebrow.

"Yup," John nodded, "Right here." He placed the bag he was carrying on the table.

He pulled out the contents of the bag just enough to have a peek of what was inside, and found that he had also accidentally stuffed the gun in with the other clothes.

It instantly triggered a negative reaction from him, an impulse to hide it, just as he hid his desire for danger, and he hurriedly crammed it into his jacket pocket. 

Sherlock gave him a piercing look, no doubt reading John's thoughts, and perhaps he  _ could  _ read them, because did not ask any questions. 

John handed the gunless bag to Sherlock, who unceremoniously dumped its contents onto the table top, something which John wished he hadn't done when he saw all of the clothing items in the bag. 

He had packed all his clothes from that day:  _ all  _ of them, which unfortunately also included his vest and underwear. Thankfully his embarrassment decreased when he saw that Sherlock looked at all of it with a cold, assessing gaze, paying no special attention to John's inner wear.

"So on 15th May, You found yourself wearing these clothes, and had the cap, glasses and this," Sherlock looked at the wristband with a curious, unsure look. "Leather... Watch? You had previously neither owned nor seen them. Yes?"'

"Absolutely correct." John said with a small smile. The detective was rather intriguing to watch when he was at work. He was alert and lively, confident and competent in a manner that John found a bit difficult to look away from. 

He was, John thought decidedly, at his best like this. 

"Interesting," Sherlock murmured, "these are the exact pieces of clothing that you wore on the day I met you nine years ago."

Sherlock picked up the jacket and lifted it closer to his face and sniffed at it delicately, his eyes widening momentarily, before his eyebrows knit themselves into confusion. 

"How long did you say you wore this outfit?" He asked John, looking up at him from the clothes watching and listening very attentively to what he had to say. 

John felt a little unsure under all of the scrutiny. "About half a day, I think." he replied.

"Half a day?!" Sherlock almost pounced on the statement. "This jacket has been worn by you for at least 6-7 years. The scent is dissimilar to yours on many superficial points, but it's core essence is a match to yours." 

With quick moments and fluid motion, Sherlock picked up each of John's garments and sniffed at it, ascertaining whether or not they too carried the smell.

 By a twisted turn of fate, the last garment Sherlock picked up was John's underwear, and he brought it close to his nose without a second thought. 

Quite frankly, John was glad of the lack of customers. He wasn't sure how they'd react to something like this on a table for  _ food _ .

Sherlock inhaled the fabric, paused briefly and then nodded, "All these items belong to you, and have been put to use by you for many years." 

The damning piece of cloth was still lightly grasped in his slender white hands, the dark red of the underwear in stark contrast to Sherlock's porcelain skin. 

It should have been nothing but awkward for John, and yet he was sure that no one had ever held an underwear in such an attractive and sexy manner as Sherlock . The fact that he'd worn it, however briefly, did not seem to help matters, and John gulped as a jolt of pleasure shot down his spine. 

Quickly he repressed it though, because Sherlock noticed, and he dropped the scandalous item onto the table, the faintest pink appearing on the sharp lines of his cheekbones. 

For about a minute, the two avoided each other's gaze, eyes skittering to different points in the restaurant, at anything but the person sitting in front of them. 

Finally, though, the fact that work needed to be done sunk itself into their brains, and Sherlock cleared his throat as he said, "The only logical explanation left is that these items of clothing belong to the  _ other  _ John, the one I met at St Bart's, and the person who recorded the clips. The cap and sunglasses, however, belong to my brother most certainly. That means....," Sherlock raised his eyebrows to encourage John to contribute to their conversation. 

"Er-- it means that he either stole it from Mycroft, or that Mycroft gave it to him." John replied uncertainly, caught a bit off guard at Sherlock's sudden request.

"Yes John!" Sherlock's face brightened, a smile so endearing crossing his features that John felt warmth spread in his own chest. "You are correct. Of course, it is highly unlikely that even you, with your military background could actually  _ steal  _ it from Mycroft, and it doesn't look to me as an item to steal, so the probability is that Mycroft gave it to you. But why?"

He stared at John in deep thought. The latter thought about what he'd first thought when he'd seen the two things, "It could be a disguise." 

Sherlock suddenly seemed to focus onto John more clearly, as he intently considered John's theory. "Yes," he hummed in agreement, "Very possible. They do cover most of your face, and though it isn't a particularly good disguise, it is enough to hide your features in a way that doesn’t attract attention."

He seemed satisfied with the conclusion, before his face once again lined with intrigue. "But none of it explains  _ what  _ this is or  _ why  _ did you have this with you." Sherlock extracted the leather band from the heap and showed it to John.

John just shrugged. He didn't have any more of an idea about it than Sherlock did. 

Sherlock examined the screen and the buttons and panels carefully, his magnifying glass brought out with a flourish from a pocket of the coat as he peered through it.

After what seemed like a thorough examination, he put it down and looked at John with even more confusion than before,"It indicates a time stamp and a location on it's screen." 

"What? Location? Where?" John, who had not noticed anything about it other than that it was similar to a wristwatch, leaned forward to have another look at it. 

"Here. See? The numbers on this corner, they aren't random numbers at all, they're coordinates-- and by the look of them, somewhere in London. Hmmm," he steepled his fingers, " The 29th of January, 2010. At 10:30. At a certain location. What do you think John?" 

"I quite frankly don't know. I rather thought that it was just a watch, you know. But now there's a location and all these buttons. Surely they can't be all to change the timing on the screen. I'm all out of ideas. Sorry."

"Wait. Buttons. Yes!" Sherlock suddenly pounced on to the band and pressed a few buttons, before giving out a triumphant gasp. "There are buttons to manipulate the time, John. Look," he showed the screen on the panel to John,  The numbers on which had changed from 10:30 to 10:28.

"So, is it a clock?" John asked, quizzically, as he ran his fingers over the array of buttons and lights and whatnot. 

"I don't know." Sherlock admitted in a gruff tone, throwing an irritated look at the object, as if it had personally offended him. 

John fiddled with it a bit, and then strapped it onto his right wrist. "See, I was wearing it like this when I woke up." He showed it to Sherlock, who merely nodded and picked up his phone from the table, checking for new texts. It seemed like a sulk was coming on.

The phone reminded John of something. 

"Hey," he poked Sherlock with a finger, sensing that he'd have to distract him from what looked like the beginnings of a sulk, "So, how did you get my number?"'

"I have my means John, I already told you that." Sherlock replied looking up from the screen.

"Oh come on. Did you deduce it or something?" John encouraged him to talk about his deductions, hoping it would make him feel better. 

Sherlock paused for a moment, wondering whether he should throw some mumbo jumbo at John about probability of numbers and whatnot, before deciding that there was no meaning in all of it. The reason of his bringing John here would soon become apparent and he didn't want any distractions then.

"Mycroft." He mumbled, not wanting to admit that he'd enlisted his brother's help.

"Oh, I see." John grinned, "Your methods, eh?" 

"Shut up, John." Sherlock said darkly. "I have to  _ compensate  _ for it too. The  _ Governor _ will require my services soon."

"What?! The Governor!" John sat up straighter, the dots finally connecting in his mind as he remembered the conversation with Sherlock's 'arch nemesis'.

"Sherlock," he said, not happy that he spent a good few hours fretting over the mysterious man, when Sherlock could have just told him the truth, "is it slightly possible that the man who kidnapped me the other day was your brother?"

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, "Yes. It was Mycroft who 'kidnapped' you." He rolled his eyes at the dramatics of John Watson. 

"You utter cock!" John said, annoyed, "You could have told me that,you know. Then I wouldn't  be going around worrying for your safety , thinking of how someone wanted to do away with you." 

"Well," Sherlock said like he was talking about the weather, "there are people who want to 'do away with me' as you so succinctly put it. Just not Mycroft." 

When John looked as though he might be getting cross at all of this, Sherlock nudged at him. "But tell me John, why were  _ you  _ so worried about me?" He smiled in a teasing manner.

John glared at him, choosing not to answer his question, and instead muttered darkly, " 'A message sent from any camera in London will reach me'. The pompous arse."

"Oh, he said that to you?" Sherlock leaned in with interest.

John looked up at him, and found that his face was animated and vibrant, something he was not used to seeing a lot. The made his anger slowly fade away into a smile, and he was secretly glad that Sherlock had stopped sulking. "You know what," he said to the man in front of him, " we should really send him a message."

He got up from the table, sliding the chair behind, and exited the restaurant, his cane making sharp clicks on the gravel, and stopped at the nearest security camera. Sherlock was close at his heels, something akin to glee shining on his face. 

John looked straight up at the camera lens, and said really slowly, so that the camera would capture what he spoke perfectly. "Mycroft. I'm sending you a little  _ message _ . I hope you get it loud and clear."

Then, he proceeded to flip the camera off with both his hands with the cane tucked under his armpit, a stunt that garnered amused looks from some passersby, and disgusted looks from others. 

Sherlock however, was grinning from ear to ear, and murmured a 'good job' in John's ear, before handing him his bag, with all contents neatly folded.

John was still feeling quite smug, though he didn't generally behave like this. He was usually more mature than flipping people off; but really, the mental image of Mycroft scowling even more than he usually did was enough to spur him on.

Suddenly Sherlock grabbed his arm and tugged at it sharply. "John," he hissed, "the person who I was keeping a lookout for, she's here."

He pointed to a narrow alleyway that was partially visible from his angle, and John could see a figure in a black hoodie disappearing into it. 

"She?" He asked, a bit confused. Who was this person whom they were following?

"It's hardly the time it be sexist," Sherlock replied, "Come on, we need to go now."

He started walking towards the alleyway, and missed completely the absurd look John gave him. Sexist? He was only asking who this 'she' was. Shaking his head, he walked after the detective, whose coat was billowing dramatically in the cold London air. The two trudged through the busy crowd in the streets, and crossed the road in what John thought was a hazardous fashion, and slipped into the narrow lane. 

While it was already nearing sundown, the towering buildings on either side made it darker still, and John was reminded of the mugging incident that had occurred not too long ago. 

In the dim light they could make out the black outline of the woman they were following. 

All of a sudden, the figure stopped, and muttering a curse under his breath, Sherlock slammed John into a wall next to another building that jutted out a little, providing adequate space to hide themselves from view.

Everything was deadly silent, the two men pressed against each other, holding their breath as they tried hard to catch any sound that could tell them what the woman was doing. 

The wall was painfully hard and rough on his back, and John tried not to squirm. Sherlock was straining his ears, and looking towards the woman, who was obscured by the other building. 

He looked like something out of a noir detective novel, hair messed up by the wind, the streetlight illuminating his skin and throwing the rest of him in the shadows.

John's breath hitched momentarily. Sherlock saw it, turning his head to look at him. 

God, they were only inches apart, and it seemed all too easy to close the distance, but then John remembered Sarah. He may not love her, nor she him, not romantically at least, anymore. But that didn't mean he would be unfaithful to her. 

John Watson, after all, was a man known for his fierce loyalty, albeit he only gave it to a few. 

And Sherlock must have read his mind, because for a second his face fell a little, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come, making John wonder if he'd imagined it. 

Then there was the sound of footsteps walking away, and both of them let out a sigh of relief. Sherlock peeked a little from their hiding place, and then separated from John as quick as lightning. 

He beckoned John with his hand and moved forward. 

"So, what has she done?" John whispered to Sherlock as they walked carefully down the road. 

"Her name is Alicia Smith, and she's a known drug dealer, particularly cocaine and meth, in this area." 

"What? Sherlock," John said, a little alarmed, "Please don't tell me we are here to get you some drugs."

"Of course not, John." Sherlock's voice was petulant. "I wouldn't be so stupid as to do that. Anyways, You wouldn't allow me to buy some cocaine."

"You're damn right I won't. I'm telling you Sherlock," John shook a finger threateningly, "I'll tackle you to the ground if you try to--"

"Oh do keep quiet John," Sherlock sounded a little fond underneath his irritation, "We're not here for drugs. She's a major suspect in a murder I've been investigating for the Yard. We need to arrest her on drug peddling charges so that I can question her on the murder."

"Why not just take her into interrogation for the murder directly?"

"We can't do that." Sherlock explained, as they reached the end of the alley, "She didn't kill George Zimmer due to her own agenda, she did it for someone else. If we question her on the murder officially, then the person who arranged it will go off the radar."

They took a sharp right, and found themselves in another street, at the end of which was a dead end and Alicia Smith, giving small packets of white powder to a shady customer. 

"Good!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Get ready, John."

Together the two sneaked up behind Alicia and the man, and Sherlock signalled John to tackle the client a second before he launched himself onto Alicia, giving John no time to back out of it. 

With no choice, John pounced upon the shady man and exerted all his weight onto him, causing the man to lose his balance and fall flat on his back. 

He struggled in vain under John's grip, and the latter was pleased when he looked to his right and found that Sherlock had caught Alicia too. 

Their triumph, however, was short-lived. 

"Sherlock Holmes. At long last." Came a voice from behind them, and instantly the two turned around to look at its source.

There were five people standing in a semi circle of sorts, holding knives, hockey sticks and other things equally capable of hurting someone badly. They looked menacing in their black costumes and soot covered faces and rough grubby hands. 

In the middle of the group was what seemed to be the gang leader-- a six foot man with a long scar stretching across his left cheek in what was an entirely too theatrical manner. 

"Have been following her for a long time haven't you?" He spoke in rough, scratchy tones and his eyes flickered to John for moment. "Who's the buffoon you've brought with you? Nevermind, doesn't matter. We'll just kill both of you."

At this the people around him gave a round of enthusiastic cheers. John turned to look at Sherlock, sure that he would have an answer or a way out of this. 

Sherlock however, didn't. His face was pale, his expression unreadable. Then he took a deep breath and stood up from keeping Alicia captive, and let her go to the other side. 

He inched towards John and muttered, "Let him go, now. I did not anticipate these turn of events. I apologize for it. At the moment, our topmost priority is to get you out of here. But I don't think Mycroft's men can come soon enough."

Grudgingly, John stood up from his position. The man gave him a dirty look and, with a terse nod to the gang leader, vanished into the London night. 

"Well, don't you think it's a bit too much for trying to do for one person, eh?" John tried to make things a bit better.

"But it's not just one person, is it, Mr Holmes?" The man asked Sherlock, a sly smirk across his scarred features. 

"Yeah," a woman with a hockey stick ready to swing shouted, "Harvey, Jared, Polly and Tom. This bastard put all of them in lock up."

"And who are you, asking questions anyway?" A reedy voice emerged from the group. It was a thin, gangly man with a bad case of acne. 

The others gave out cries of agreement.

"Enough, now." The man stepped closer to them. "Ladies and gentlemen,  _ go _ !" 

All of them were about to launch forward at once, but John put a hand out in front of them, surprising the whole crowd. 

"Not so soon, if I have anything to do with it." 

Only at the last moment had he remembered the weapon that he'd tucked away in his waistband. With practised ease, that was mostly muscle memory from Afghanistan, John flourished his gun, pointing directly at the leader. 

"You asked me who I was." John's voice was deadly calm. "Well, I am Captain John Hamish Watson, of the fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. It really won't do now, will it, if you disobey a Captain's direct order?"

He cocked his gun and stood still, his cane held from its middle like another weapon brandished. 

Wow, he thought, the adrenaline was really pushing him, so much that he felt that the gun was even lighter than he remembered.

The gangly man with the reedy voice looked like he was about to step forward.

"Unless," John's voice had a threatening edge to it, "You want to see just how much of a crack shot I am."

For a minute, no one moved, everyone, even Sherlock, dumbstruck by the sudden surge of power that emanated from John. He'd looked like a proper civilian before. But now, one could see the man he was in the hot dusty land of Afghanistan. 

The gang leader raised his hand and signalled everyone to back off. There were some sighs of disappointment, but no one dared to go against the force that was John Watson. 

Until one of the members ran towards Sherlock in a sudden spurt, so that he was too close for comfort to Sherlock, when John aimed his gun at him. 

Sherlock, however, needed no protection. In one swift movement, he punched his assailant in the throat, and hooked his long legs onto the gasping man's, who fell on his back on the hard gravel of the road. 

"There," Sherlock dusted his hands as if he'd just completed a particularly trying chore. "Now, John, shouldn't we leave? I believe we've gotten across our point." 

John glared at Scar-face, willing him to release them.

"Let them go." Their leader said in a subdued tone with gritted teeth, but John was far from believing that they'd seen the last of them. It was likely that they would try again. And as much as he admired Sherlock's combat skills, he would be no match for a gang of five armed goons.

John put his hand holding the gun down and turned on the safety, but was nonetheless alert, ready for any unforeseen attacks.

"Until the next time." The man murmured to them as they passed by him into the alley which would lead to the main street.

Only seconds before they emerged onto the busy road did John tuck his gun back into place, relaxing his shoulders and dropping his army man’s stance. 

They'd walked in silence until now, and as John sneaked a glance at the detective, he found that the man was grinning.

"Not bad, John. The Captain Watson thing was pretty effective, huh?" His eyes were twinkling as he regarded John with open admiration. 

John felt his cheeks warm and ducked his head. "Thanks," he said, unable to suppress his own grin. "I'm glad we got out of there safely. But seriously, Sherlock, you need to take better care of yourself. At least if you're going to such places as this, unarmed like that."

Sherlock resolutely ignored John's piece of advice and gushed on, "Your acting especially was really good. It was all very convincing considering that your gun was empty. I was afraid you might give yourself away."

"Sorry, what?" John stopped in his tracks. "What did you say again?" The colour was slowly draining out of his face.

"I was saying, that your performance was excellent, considering the fact that your gun had no bullets." 

"Fuck." John cursed, immediately removing his gun and checking for bullets. The magazine was empty. He slumped against a wall nearby. "Shit. I had no idea.  _ That’s  _ why the gun seemed so light." He breathed heavily in shock, and then looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes.

Simultaneously, the two burst into laughter. Both of them leaning heavily on the wall, out of breath and giggling badly, garnering curious looks from passersby, and not giving a damn about it.

"You seriously had no idea?" Sherlock asked, in between fits of laughter.

"Nope--- none at all." John chuckled, "if I actually knew it, I don't know whether I could pull it off or not." 

"Doesn't matter." Sherlock waved it away. "It's all done now." He nudged John with his elbow. "Still, it was great work. Maybe we could make a habit out of it."

John suddenly stopped laughing and looked at Sherlock. Do this with him everyday? God knew John would love it. Hell, the other John did that everyday.

But instinctively, both of them knew that this wasn't a possibility-- at least not in this universe. Perhaps in another...

John willed his eyes to convey just how much he wanted to do it, just as he said, "That is, if I can get any free time at all from the surgery." 

He smiled a little, and Sherlock returned the gesture, accepting the refusal, and nodding his head. "Yes, indeed." 

John took a deep breath,"But maybe we can meet again sometime, to you know, discuss the case." He offered, hoping Sherlock would accept. 

"Right. Yes. Absolutely. It's a good idea--" Sherlock caught himself, "because we haven't solved the case yet."

"That's correct. I'll text you whenever I get free, yes?" 

"Okay."

Both of them lingered awkwardly in the cold air, discreetly looking at each other's faces in the streetlight. 

John shuffled his feet. "Listen, I should get going." He looked at his wrist where the leather band was still there. "Look, it's already 10:28 in the morning." He laughed weakly at his attempt at humour.

"Yes," Sherlock chuckled, his voice deep and warm and wonderful, "you'd better get going."

"Right." John stood there, holding his breath for a second longer, and then turned to leave. 

"Stop right where you are,  _ Doctor  _ Watson, or else my men will shoot. Hands in the air, turn around, and do not try to even go  _ near  _ Sherlock." Came the crisp, cool voice of a man that John thought he'd seen far too much of than he liked. 

As he turned around, he saw a confused looking Sherlock beside him, and Mycroft Holmes standing in front him, leading a group of soldiers, all with their guns pointing at John Watson.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another chapter is here!!!!  
> Really, I was tempted to name the chapter: The One Where Sherlock Sniffs John's Underwear.
> 
> This time however, I have to thank my newly found beta Vanshikakumar for making my work so much more easier with her help and awesome suggestions!!!!! You can find her on the link below >>>
> 
> (https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanshikakumar/pseuds/Vanshikakumar)
> 
> And if you like the story, please leave kudos, comments or constructive criticism! Thank you!


	10. Two Johns And A Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go back to where it all began- January the 29th, 2010, St James Park.

The men were standing with guns and flashlights, all pointing towards John and Sherlock, throwing them into the spotlight, while Mycroft was only illuminated by the dim glow of the  street lights, bathing him in shadows and making him look just like the criminal mastermind John had first imagined him to be. 

John raised his hands, one of them tightly gripping his cane, the other up in surrender. The gun in his waistband felt tauntingly useless and he wondered just what the hell was happening. 

What  _ was _ Mycroft getting at? 

And looking at Sherlock, John saw that he was just as confused as him. 

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, "is this about the  _ message _ ?" 

"Yeah," John chimed in, "is it about me flipping you off?"

Mycroft regarded him with a certain distaste, before he nonchalantly admitted, "In a way, yes."

Sherlock's face neared as much incredulity as John had ever seen, "Really Mycroft? That's low, even for you." He then looked down upon his older brother, which was surprising feat since Mycroft had at least an inch over him, and with a derisive sheer took John's hand and began to turn him around. "Come along, John, we really don't need to stick around to watch the  _ government _ get  _ offended _ ."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft snapped, "I already told you, do not go  _ near _ him! He is a possible threat to the security of the nation."

"Threat to the security of the nation?" Sherlock scoffed, "I mean sure, John is an excellent fighter and shooter, but I really wouldn't stretch it enough to be a threat to a  _ country _ ." He turned to John, who still had his hands in the air, "No offense to you, of course."

"None taken." John replied, still looking utterly puzzled. 

Mycroft closed his eyes for a few moments, as if the whole ordeal was extremely trying and draining, and took in a deep breath before explaining, "Sherlock, this man is in possession of an item that is extremely powerful- a weapon, if one knows how to use it. The  _ source  _ from which we have obtained the weapon has assured us that ours is the only one that had ever been given to  _ anyone _ on this earth-- that is, to the British Government."

He looked at John accusingly, though with some sort of grudging respect for whatever it was that he'd supposedly done. "This man here, has stolen another one of those weapons, from a person who is extremely powerful themselves, without the faintest knowledge of that person. Which means,that currently, he may be the most dangerous man on earth. He bears the proof of it on his wrist, which we discovered when he was  _ sending me the message. _ "

John looked at the leather wristband on his hand, showing it to Sherlock, "This is--- a deadly weapon? The clock?" Was Mycroft out of his mind?

Mycroft's satisfied expression faltered for a split second, before he gave John a knowing look, "An extremely winning piece of acting, Doctor Watson, if that is even your real name, or is that just a another well made cover? Either way, you are cornered. Drop the act."

Sherlock looked thoroughly exasperated, "Mycroft, please explain to me how a  _ wristwatch _ is a powerful weapon?"

His brother looked at him with the irritation of him not having understood something vital and apparent. "This, brother mine, is a time machine. It is known as a Vortex Manipulator and it allows the individual wearing it, as well as anyone in physical contact with said individual, to travel forward or backwards in time."

"Oh," Sherlock mused, "so that was what the location and date were there for. See," he looked at John with an excited smile, "Not just a boring watch."

John merely nodded, understanding Sherlock's joy but at the same time worried for his own mortality. Both of those feelings combined made a weird expression on his face.

"Now that you understand its purpose," Mycroft said to Sherlock, almost as if he was talking to a five year old, "get away from John Watson so that we may arrest him."

"What? No!" John exclaimed, "I don't know what you're talking about--" he was cut off by Sherlock. 

"And I presume the big red button is used to activate the gadget?" His voice was curious, yet cautious. 

"Yes," Mycroft dismissed him, irritated, "Now if we can get back to catching this dangerous man--"

"No! Sherlock, I swear I don't know what they're talking about! I didn't do anything!" John's hands were now gesturing wildly. 

Suddenly Sherlock turned to his right, Now fully facing John, his hands wide open in a display of hurt and melancholy.

"John," his voice was deeply betrayed, "I cannot believe you did this to me." He walked towards John in slow steps, his eyes looking quite wet in the blinding lights centred upon them."After all we've been through, after all we've done together, how could you do this?" His voice broke and he put up a hand dramatically as John tried to protest. Really, John hadn't known Sherlock cared this much about their relationship.

"Sherlock, don't go any closer to him!" Mycroft warned him, but the detective completely ignored him. 

"Sherlock Holmes, tell me what in  _ heaven _ ' _ s _ name are you doing this instant!" Mycroft shouted, sounding surprised, exasperated and angry all at once.

"Mycroft, I-I" Sherlock very nearly choked on this statement. "Let me have this moment." It was in a pleading yet emotional tone that he delivered this. He turned back to a bewildered John.

"All those kisses and promises and confessions, did they mean nothing to you?" Sherlock demanded, stepping closer still. They were nose to nose now and though John was largely confused as to when the alleged kisses had occurred, a part of his heart tugged at the sheer pain that was in Sherlock's voice.

"Tell me you love me, John. Tell me." Sherlock whispered, though his voice was loud enough to be heard by Mycroft, who looked absolutely shocked at this new side of him. Of course, he would see through the facade soon, but by then it would be too late.

John was quite frankly startled, the depth and conviction in Sherlock's voice making him feel as though they really had been in love. A confession was on the tip of his tongue.

A sinful thought crossed John's mind,  _ hadn't they been in love? _ The way he'd felt when he'd looked at Sherlock as he was leaving, only a few moments ago; God that was--

Sherlock took the hand that was not clutching his cane, interrupting John's thought process, and stared deep into his eyes. Sherlock's eyes  were blue and green and golden and every colour that the sea had ever existed in and his pupils were dilating rapidly. John thought he saw a glint of mischief in them.

He brought his mouth close to John's ear and whispered in the low baritone that John was fast becoming addicted to, "You know, I've always wanted to press  big red buttons."

"No, stop him!" Came the cry of realisation from Mycroft Holmes, but it was too late for anyone to do anything. 

John felt a sharp push of Sherlock's finger on the leather wristband, and before he could ever react to anything, he was pulled into a dark void. 

\-----

John was sure he had been hit by a bullet and stopped existing-- and that this was whatever after-life was supposed to be.

His lungs couldn't breathe, because there was no air to breathe in. He couldn't see nor hear, because there was nothing to see or be heard. He could feel nothing because there was no matter to be felt.

And then all the air rushed back to his lungs and all the light filled his retina and all the sounds fought to enter into his ear canal and every inch of his skin was tingling again. 

He staggered dangerously, gripping the bark of a nearby tree for support. It seemed as though someone else had had the same idea,because the tree bark was soft and warm and  _ fleshy _ instead of rough, hard and solid.

He heard a sound of ragged breaths similar to his own and when John finally opened his eyes, he found a grinning Sherlock Holmes beside him. Their hands overlapped each other’s and John's already racing pulse became faster. He quickly withdrew his hand. 

Perhaps it was the sheer imbalance that had taken up John in the void making a comeback, because John suddenly needed to use his cane again. He put the wood to ground in a movement he was well used to and steadied himself. 

"Great escape, wasn't it?" Sherlock asked him, breath not fully recovered yet.

John gave a breathy laugh, "Yes. A  _ grand _ escape. From the  _ government _ no less." 

After a few seconds, both of them recovered enough to look around at their surroundings. 

There were many trees and benches on either side of a pathway, on which many people were walking or jogging, children running along and lush greenery all around them. A dog walking past with their owner barked playfully at John, but John paid no heed to the animal, his mouth lay hanging open, surveying everything wide eyes. 

"Fuck. We're in St James' Park." John said disbelievingly. 

"That is what it looks like,"  Sherlock replied, sounding fascinated himself. 

"Do you-- I mean do you really think--" 

"That we've travelled to the past?" He finished the sentence when John seemed unable to. "Only one way to find out."

"Yeah," John's face brightened a little. "Like in the movies." He walked a little distance ahead to a man reading a newspaper on a bench. That way, John thought, he was sure to get an accurate date. Sherlock followed him. 

"Hey mate..."John said on reaching the man, "can you..." he trailed off as he wasn't sure how to broach the topic and ask what year it was. He fumbled for a second or two on what to say, but Sherlock beat him to it. 

"It is the 29th of January  2010, is it not?" He asked, looking extremely impatient. 

The man looked at him oddly, as most people did, noting the slight eccentricity that Sherlock displayed even without doing anything. He looked at the top corner of the newspaper he was holding, and with an amused smile, said, "Yup mate. The 29th of January." 

 John looked a little stunned by how quickly the exchange had occurred, mentally berating himself for not trying the simplest, direct approach.

"Thank you." Sherlock said curtly and grabbed John by the hand pulling him away. 

"Good thinking." John remarked as they walked away from the man.

"No John. Just thinking. Something which you didn't seem very compelled on doing back there." 

"Fuck off." John said, without venom or heat, a grin slowly growing on his features. "So, we really are in the past, bloody hell." 

"Yes John, bloody hell." Sherlock gave a 'C'est la vie' look to John.

"Also, the thing you did back there," John waved his hands around,  unable to properly articulate what he meant, "why did you do it?" 

"I have done a considerable amount of work in the past some time, John, you'll have to be more specific." Sherlock gave him a small smirk.

John elbowed him lightly, "You git, I was talking about-- well, you know, how you were so sure that I wasn't a dangerous criminal like Mycroft told you and just...me?" He put his hands in his pockets and kicked a pebble on the ground. 

Sherlock just looked at this wonderful man who stood before him, trying his best not to be awkward and failing miserably in a way that was  _ adorable _ .

What he wanted to say was: John Watson, you're the most loyal and brave person I've ever met. You're golden. You're the cold metal of a gun and warm calming tea. You could never be anything wrong. 

What he also wanted to say was: John Watson. You're not just a plain old 'you' like you think you are. You're loyal and brave and smart and beautiful and  _ golden _ . You're everything that is good and right. 

But he didn't say any of that. Instead he said:

"You're not really a dangerous sort of person you know." When John looked offended, Sherlock shrugged, "I mean, you wear  _ festive jumpers  _ on Christmas day."

"How do you know that?" John asked. Sure he did wear jumpers with little xmas trees on it on Christmas day, but he had  _ never _ mentioned it to Sherlock. 

"Sneaked a glance at your phone gallery when we met for a second time in Baker Street and you weren't looking." Then he looked at a slightly bewildered and offended John, and with a wide grin whispered, "it suits you, though." 

"You're damn right it does" John looked up at Sherlock with a wide grin of his own, before it slowly faded into an open mouthed gape, as his gaze fell further down the path. "Sherlock..." He trailed off.

"Yes?" 

"There." John pointed towards the tree a little distance away, where they had originally landed. It should have been empty. Instead, they could see another figure there, a bit unsteady on his feet, but nowhere close to stumbling around that John and Sherlock had done. 

The figure had his back to them. He was dressed in the same clothes that John had in his bag in a jacket pocket, and had the same blonde-but-leaning-towards-grey hair. In fact, he and John looked similar on most account-- from what they could make out from his back-- other than a marked absence of the cane.

John and Sherlock looked at the man, then each other, wide eyed. "The  _ other _ John." Both of them whispered together, not quite believing their luck. Simultaneously, both of them ran towards the man, who was beginning to walk in long, sure steps towards a park bench a few feet away.

"Hey!" John shouted, "You! I mean me! Fuck, I mean-- John Watson!"

The man however, did not seem to have heard his ramblings and continued walking determinedly to his destination.

"John!" Sherlock called out and the effect was surprisingly instantaneous. The man stopped in his tracks abruptly, and then,from the movement of his back muscles seemed to be taking in deep breaths. He then turned around, only ten feet away from them. 

John had always been sure that he didn't have a twin, and no other siblings expect Harry, but the man in front of him was... 

John brought his hand up to his face, touching his facial features and almost expected the man in front of him to do the same-- as if he were his reflection in a mirror. 

However, the other John didn’t. He kept staring at John, though his eyes kept reverting almost as though by an outside force to Sherlock, before looking back at John in disbelief. 

They looked the exact same, with the same hair, same bags under their eyes, the same thin pink lips, the same cobalt blue eyes. This other John, however, had no moustache, it being the only glaring difference between them, other than, of course, their clothes and cane.

The man came towards the two in lightning speed and Sherlock noticed that he didn't seem as affected by seeing his clone as  _ his _ John was. No-- Sherlock corrected himself hastily-- the John in  _ his universe _ . 

Immediately, when he reached them, his eyes flitted to Sherlock, as if he would have all the answers. "Sherlock, who's this? I mean how did you get another John? And," John gave Sherlock a small, fond, grateful smile, "I'm glad to know you're not high anymore." The other John thought he saw moisture in his twin's eyes.

For a split second, Sherlock's chest clenched at the familiarity and love with which this John looked at him, and then it clenched a bit more painfully at the realization that he wasn't the Sherlock towards which it was really directed. 

"Well," the John holding the cane said, "I'm John Watson too."

"What?" The other John looked a bit confused. "How is that even possible? You aren't me from 2010, you're older."  Then he concentrated harder on the other John's face, or rather the space between his nose and mouth."On a side note, that moustache  _ does _ look terrible on me." 

This elicited a small giggle from Sherlock, and the John with the moustache in question, felt a bit embarrassed and something else. 

Something that he did  _ not _ want to look too close at.

Something that made him see  _ green _ .

Sherlock on the other hand, thought with some awe at his  _ sheer _ luck: __

_I must be in heaven._ _There are two of them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10 is up!!!!!  
> Dear Lord. I really hadn't thought that this story would be THIS long. But it is. And that's wonderful, really. 
> 
> Also, yup, Sherlock is having a blast, John is beginning to be slightly jealous of the other John. And HELL. That's a fucking dangerous combination. 
> 
> Of course, a BIG THANK YOU to Vanshika, for being such and amazing Beta Reader!!! <33333
> 
> And, if you like the story, please leave kudos or comments or constructive criticism!


	11. Lose Ends And Last Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both the Johns and Sherlock unearth truths about both universes, as the tale begins to unfold in front of them.

"Fuck, I  _ really  _ can't believe I messed up." John grumbled. He sat in front of the John and Sherlock from the other universe, in a coffee shop, and ran a hand down the lines of his face. Both the Johns and Sherlock looked down towards the clothes, the cap, the wrist watch and the phone. The John with the moustache had already summarized the recordings to his other self, decidedly leaving the confession out of the summary.

It just happened that the three of them were so fascinated by this new discovery of each other, that the John responsible for keeping young Sherlock and John apart forgot all about Mike Stanford and the  _ other _ John who had come fresh from Afghanistan limping towards Mike.

_ Hell _ , he thought, this was too much to wrap his mind around. "Where did you get this from again?" He asked the pair, pointing towards the 'Vortex Manipulator' as Mycroft had called it. 

"I was wearing it when all of a sudden, I felt woozy and fell down." The other John, the one with the moustache, explained. 

"And you were wearing these clothes?"

"Yup. These exactly. And I had those sunglasses and cap with me. And the  _ phone _ ." He added the last part meaningfully towards the other John, hoping he would remember the confession that he'd made in the end.

What he did not know however, was that this clean shaven John had not yet  _ recorded _ the confession and so the meaningful look was met with confusion and then ignored. 

"And you also told me that you're from a different universe? One where we-- I mean you and Sherlock did not meet, yes?" 

"That's correct." 

"Married to Sarah. Sarah Sawyer?" John made a thoughtful that-really-happened-huh face, "Who would've guessed? I mean," he raised his hand up in his defense, " she's wonderful and all. But I just sort of think we are better off as friends, you know."

"John," Sherlock growled in frustration, " you've already made all these comments  _ twice _ ."

"No," the John with a limp interjected, in his twin's defense, "he's only said it once before." 

"He thought the whole thing out once in his head, and I can read him like a magazine, so  _ twice _ for me." 

The John sitting opposite to them muttered something that was suspiciously like 'I can read you like a magazine'.

"Taylor Swift, huh?" The army doctor in front of him grinned.

"I got a blank space baby, and I’ll write your name." They crooned together, very out of tune, and then laughed. 

Sherlock wasn't sure if he was delighted at seeing  _ two _ John Watsons  _ laugh _ or exasperated at their sheer childishness. He decided that it was perfectly alright to be both. 

"Yes, yes," he said a bit more fondly than he'd meant to sound, "but we really do need to move forward. So stop repeating things that you have already spoken."

"Fine." Moustacheless John sighed, "Look, I think I know what happened."

The other two gave him looks that said 'by all means continue', so he said, "You aren't from a different universe or anything. You're from this universe, in fact, this very timeline. I was--"' John took a moment to think, "I was sent here by Mycroft," the other John and Sherlock, emitted groans of disapproval, "to make sure that you and I --" he looked at the other John and shook head, "I mean  _ Sherlock _ and  _ John _ never meet, as I've already told you." 

"Yes, but you haven't told us why you're doing it." Sherlock interjected. 

"I have my reasons." Was all John would say about it. "The thing is, I think that I succeeded in keeping us apart.  And then, I must have pressed the button to go back to my time. Since I was successful, I entered a future where we did not know each other. Because of all this, you were wearing the same clothes as me, but your memory was of a life different than mine."

"So you mean that  _ he _ ," Sherlock pointed towards the John carrying a cane, "has your body, but not your memory?" 

"Yup." John nodded, "it's pretty complicated."

"I--I think you're right." The other John muttered, peering at a spot of skin on his right palm. "Two years ago, I got badly scraped here, got a permanent scar. It isn't here anymore, though. Noticed it a week ago." 

"Yes. Now the Vortex Manipulator." Sherlock looked at the two wristbands, intrigued, "Yours has two chances gone and one left. And we used the third chance by coming here from the future. So these are the same watch, only this one belongs in the future with no more chances-" He pointed towards the wrist of the John from his time,” and that one still has one available.”

"Right-o." 

"But you still haven't told us, why are you doing this?" John's moustache quivered as he spoke with feeling, "I mean you've got the best life I can imagine." He quickly subdued his embarrassment though, when he realised that Sherlock too was present there listening to John.

"Yes," the other John laughed a little, as if understanding what he meant.

"Yes, John is in fact correct." Sherlock surprised both the Johns with his admission, but it did nothing to change the other John's reaction.

"Look," he took in a deep breath, closing his eyes for a few seconds. "I've hurt you, okay? Not always intending to, but it happened. It happened because I was there. And Mycroft, he agreed." He let out a pained, tired sigh. "He agreed that you were better off without me. Because--" he broke off. 

"Because what?" The other John asked him, looking at his other self. 

"Because all I've done is give him pain and he's saved me over and over and over again." 

"I don't think you're correct in your hypothesis." Sherlock said quietly, gazing, out of the corner of his eye at the man sitting next to him, who was fidgeting with his cane. This was John who had taken away the drugs and who had threatened Sherlock's enemies with an empty gun and  _ smiled _ and told Sherlock that he was  _ fantastic _ .

He'd already saved Sherlock a hundred times. 

But the John opposite to him merely looked at him with loving eyes and shook his head sadly, "No I didn't. Sherlock, the other you, he was getting high on drugs because he was nervous about raising our daughter. He was so upset and I didn't notice. I  _ didn't notice. _ I  _ live _ with him and I didn't have a single fucking clue that he was using. And I told him such mean things because I was angry and he didn't say anything back. So yes," he raised his eyebrows in emphasis, over watery eyes, "I did hurt him. He probably hates me now." 

_ I could never hate you John Watson _ , Sherlock thought. But as always didn't say anything.

"John," he said in a quiet voice, "do you know why I detest Mycroft? It's not just because he's a complete prat and prances around like the git he is." Both johns laughed a little at this, but more out of fondness for Sherlock than anything else, "It's because he never asks for my opinion regarding something that affects me. He thinks he knows best, but I think I speak for the other Sherlock too, when I say that this isn't what he would have wanted either."

The John that this was directed at closed his eyes, his mouth letting in and out forced, deliberate breaths, before he shook himself out of it. 

"Hey, you have a daughter, don't you? And Sherlock takes care of her too? I imagine he'd be shit at the job." The John sitting beside Sherlock remarked, trying to lighten the situation. 

It worked. Almost helplessly, a goofy grin spread across his other self's face at some hilarious memory, and he said, "Yes I do. Her name is Rosie. And Sherlock's surprisingly good at handling her. He loves her a lot."

Sherlock made a deeply offended face, as if John had insulted him by even  _ implying _ that he was capable of love. Both the Johns laughed and one of them removed his phone out to show them the picture on his lock screen. 

Sherlock, John and Rosie, sitting like they do for family pictures, except none of them were in upright postures with their faces in the right position to catch the light. All three of them smiled like something wonderful had just happened and somehow the sunlight managed to hit them at all the right angles, making them positively  _ glow _ .

Moustached John and Sherlock looked at each other discreetly, before being caught, and looking away rapidly, faces going red. 

Each had been, unbeknownst to the other, thinking the same thing. Of how the picture looked like Paradise, of how they had never seen themselves this happy. 

Of how, though they'd never lived a single second the life that the John Watson in front of them had lived, the world in the photo seemed to be one where they were really meant to be. 

"John, I think Moustached John is right." Sherlock admitted finally, after a few seconds of awkward silence, decidedly  _ not _ looking at the man he'd just referred to as 'Moustached John', for multiple reasons. "It seems like a good life to live." _ Good was a horrible understatement, really, _ he thought.

"I agree, except the 'Moustached John' part. There  _ has _ to be another way of referring to us."

moustacheless John just laughed a bit tiredly, as if it took a lot of effort to laugh, and shook his head as if they hadn't understood the main point at all. "Look, it doesn't matter. Believe me, I put a lot of thought into this, I have good reasons."  _ Reasons which I doubt every five seconds  _ he thought, but decided not to mention _. _ "The point is, I came here to do something. But the John and Sherlock of 2010 have already met, so that means I have no other option than to restart the whole thing again--use my last chance."

"Uh-- just- are you sure?" Moustached John asked his other self, gripping the handle of his cane anxiously, a habit which he'd developed over the years. "I know it's not my decision, but we just looked so happy and content there." 

"Look---there are just some things that I can't let go of." The other John said, trying to gloss over the images that flooded his mind, "just today I found out that in my universe, when Moriarty made you jump from Bart's, he threatened to kill your friends if you didn't-- I found out that he'd primarily threatened you with my name. Which means that in my universe,  _ you _ , Sherlock, spent two years in hiding, killing the men who threatened to kill me." 

He sighed, looking at Sherlock with an aggrieved expression. "It's just another example of how I just end up being the cause of your pain." 

"Moriarty?" Sherlock asked, visibly confused. "That's a name I haven't heard in  _ years _ ."

John started abruptly, and his other self screwed his eyebrows up in curiosity, trying to make sense of what was going on. "Who's Moriarty?" 

"What are you saying?" The John who has been, until now without a limp, but could feel his leg prickling as realisation dawned on him, even as he asked the question, demanded.

"Moriarty, he was a criminal I dealt with eight years ago." He explained to both Johns. "He told me a load of gibberish about how we were the same and meant for each other. Then he gave me some puzzles to solve. And then--" Sherlock paused, gulping, "things happened, and he went away. Never saw him again. So I don't know what fake suicide you are talking about." 

The John sitting opposite to them closed his eyes as his throat tightened and his chest constricted, knowing that he should be relieved, happy. Finally he was able to speak out the thought that for the past few seconds had been beating like a drum in his brain, overriding all else. "So you mean that there are no scars on your back?" 

He could only picture the raw, animalistic marks too well. But what he really meant was: Was there no two years of absence? Of pain, torture and loneliness? Were there no life threatening games? Did it save you from Moriarty, and anguish?  _ Did I do the right thing by leaving your life? _

"Scars? There aren’t any scars, John. Please make sense." 

"Yes John, make sense. But first just take a deep breath, yeah?" It was the other John, the one that had been a GP for years now, who said this all doctor like and concerned, lightly touching the first John's hand. 

"James Moriarty," John began and then paused to let the anger that bubbled in him from long-felt hatred subside. "was a criminal mastermind, a psychopath. He challenged Sherlock to a game, and at the end of it, he forced Sherlock to either commit suicide or have Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and I killed. Sherlock managed to fake his death and save us too and then he went around the world for two years dismantling Moriarty's network. During those two years," there was a lump growing larger by the minute in John's throat and the image once again imprinted itself onto his brain. "He got-- tortured--there were marks. Painful, whip marks."

"Oh." Was all the response that Sherlock could give, fascinated by the man in front of him. His pain was real, he decided, and very deep. Sherlock admitted,but only to himself, that he had never expected anyone to feel so deeply for him. 

"And  _ you _ don't have them." John continued, with a sad smile on his face. "So I guess me not being there is a good idea, huh? Of course," he added, with a more real smile, however weak, "You still seemed to have met, so I guess I only have to remove the audio recordings from the phone and then my job will be properly done." 

Both John and Sherlock of the universe different from this John's, stiffened instantly. Their body seemed to want to move every particle of itself in opposition to this offer. Because no one should be able to give them something as wonderful as each other and then take it away from them. The mere thought hurt. It hurt like a thousand fucking holes teared through them at once by a thousand bullets. 

"I still think it's a bad idea." Sherlock said, trying to keep the desperation in his voice at bay. His body however, betrayed him by leaning forward in emphasis, hands bracing themselves on the table’s edges and his breathing a smidge faster than it normally was.  

"Yeah, I mean," the other John added, "we are the product of lives without each other and we think that it's..." He struggled a little, trying to downplay it, "Not that great."

The John in front of them just shook his head firmly."The decision isn't yours to make, okay? You don't know how much it hurts to see him high on that thing and knowing that I could have stopped it. That I  _ should _ have stopped it." He got up to leave.

"Wait!" Both Sherlock and John called out, the latter nearly raising his cane to physically barricade this other John Watson. 

John didn't know what he wanted to say to his other self from the perfect universe and he could only hope Sherlock did. And Sherlock never disappointed John.

Sherlock took in a deep breath, and then began, "You mentioned the Jennifer Wilson case, in your recordings. And if the timeline is correct then we solve the case tomorrow night, yes?" John nodded, not quite seeing the point of this. "I want to see the end of the case, I want to see how I solved it." Both Johns look equally confused at that. 

"In my timeline I didn't solve it. I don't even know who the murderer was." This was an outright lie since he had known who the killer was, but John understood his intention and so said nothing. "So I need you to stay here with us until tomorrow night. And who knows, you might remember something important." 

The John who this was proposed to looked tired, unconvinced, knowing exactly what important thing Sherlock wanted John to recollect. "Really? Well, genius, I guess you want us to spend the night on the footpaths meanwhile?" He asked, an eyebrow raised in sarcasm. 

"No," Sherlock said thoughtfully, stretching out the monosyllabe. "Its 2010. I think I just might know a place." 

When both the Johns looked at him questioningly, he elaborated, "I used to ...use it. For getting high sometimes." He didn't want to meet either Johns' eyes, fearing he would be met with disapproval and disgust. Instead, when he sneaked a glance, both of them looked at him with understanding, concern and affection. Sherlock shook his head in amazement. 

John Watson, in any form, in any universe, could never fail to surprise him. He smiled a private little smile. 

"But would a drug den be,  _ ideal _ , for spending a night?" Asked the John Watson who had never had the privilege of finding Sherlock Holmes in a drug den, calling himself 'Shezza'. 

"Yes. It's not so bad" Sherlock assured him. "Once you get used to the smell." He added in lower tones. 

Both the Johns wrinkled their noses, and the John who knew Sherlock's method only too well, for having lived with him for years, also knew that he would have to agree sooner or later. He sighed. "Just promise me one thing, yeah? That you won't..." he didn't need to continue.

"Yes," the other John added, "even though it would be damn easy for you if you did want to. Are we sure this is such a good idea?" 

Sherlock sighed dramatically, making it very clear that everyone around him was being hideously boring and tedious. "Please. Don't be  _ absurd _ . I have data that I want to collect tomorrow, I will  _ obviously _ not get high just yet, don't you think?"

Neither John was convinced by the antics of Sherlock Holmes and so they remained determined to at least get a promise from the detective to be sober. 

Sherlock deduced these desires, and slumping his shoulders, as though admitting defeat from a particularly stubborn opponent declared, "Yes, I will not intake any drugs during my stay at the drug den." 

"Good." Both johns smiled in satisfaction. 

"Now if you will excuse me, I will go and ensure that the premises are available tonight." Sherlock stood up. 

"Hey wait. Don't you think Mycroft will see you in his cameras if you walk around like that?" The John who was only too familiar with the elder Holmes' power, asked Sherlock. "You'll need to put on something so that you aren't immediately recognizable." 

"I know just the thing." The other John smiled broadly. He took out the cap and glasses from the bag in his jacket pocket. "Here." 

His nose wrinkled in disgust over using something that belonged to Mycroft, Sherlock gingerly held the two objects from the tips of his fingers. 

"Oi!" John said, lightly whacking Sherlock with his cane. "Also," he added mischievously, "You shouldn't wear that coat. It's too noticeable." 

"Nonsense," Sherlock said, "everyone wears a black coat. There's nothing noticeable about it." 

"Well, it is, if you walk around with it billowing behind you, and your collar turned up and your cheekbones, and all of  _ that _ ." John, who remembered saying something of the sort to Sherlock in Baskerville observed, with a small smirk.

Sherlock flushed slightly at the compliment, something which did not sit well with the other John, who stood up on a whim to do  _ something _ . 

"Yeah," he said a bit stupidly, then added, "wear my jacket instead."

John's jacket was frankly a little too big for him, adding to the overall 'grandfather look' he had with his moustache, and so it did not look all that tiny on Sherlock. 

"Right." Sherlock said, tugging at the sleeves which were a bit too short. It made him look sort of awkward and  _ very _ adorable, with the cap and glasses making him reminiscent of a gangly teenager. This led to both Johns giving him besotted looks, and Sherlock bathed in it, thinking that it  _ might _ just be the best day in his life. An added bonus was that the jacket smelled like the John from his universe and the smell made Sherlock feel comfortable and safe. 

Once he took his leave, the two Johns looked at each other with wide grins and then watch the tall figure disappear round the corner. 

"He's something isn't he?" One of them asked. It did not matter which one, because both had been thinking the same thing. 

Both of them giggled a little. It suddenly struck Moustached John that it was a bit like two teenagers talking dreamily about their shared celebrity crush and when he shared this thought with the other John, the two cracked up and laughed freely. 

"Also," moustached John said, recovering from his fit, "don't worry, he hasn't heard the last part of your recordings." 

"What?"

 The man in front of him looked utterly confused, and John mentally thought that maybe this time travelling stuff was a lot more complicated than he'd originally thought. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANNND ANOTHER ONEE   
> Yes. Things may seem a little confusing, and the only reason you can make sense of the whole thing is because the Amazing Beta Vanshika, helped me a TON!!! So thank you so much!!!! :-)!  
> And yes, they're going to watch that beautiful night unfold before them!!


	12. The Song Of John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, Sherlock, and John visit the drug den, find out more about each other's lives, and get into trouble.  
> ((Warning: use of the word fagg*t ))

"The thing you said, at the end of the second recording?" John asked, puzzled, "You said you loved him." 

"Oh," the man in front of him said, a gust of air released from his lips, "I- I haven't recorded the second one yet, I think I’ll do it after I distract Sherlock at St Bart's." 

Then there was silence. Both of them felt awkward, but then both of them smiled ruefully. There was no use denying it, they already knew it's the truth. And besides, such things are easier to admit to one's own self, and in a way, they  _ were _ one person.

The John who'd originally brought this up, dropped the topic, because no words were needed. Nothing needed to be permanently recorded on the fabric of time. For now, this would do. 

"Hey," he grinned, but it was not quite real yet, "Is Sherlock really good at handling Rosie? Or did you just say it to annoy Sherlock?" 

"No, really" a small, sad smile was sitting on the other John's face, perhaps it was the nostalgia. It must be. His entire life as he knew it was behind him now. "He is surprisingly good at it. Of course you have to monitor him a bit," there was less sadness and more animation in John's voice now, "because he keeps trying to make Rosie learn different kinds of bones or the 243 types of tobacco ashes and whatnot. I fear that at this rate, her first word will be 'murder' or something." 

He laughed, and his other self with the moustache could see that there was no annoyance there, even at the prospect of something so weird. Moustached John thought,  _ this man is perfect for Sherlock Holmes. _ But he didn’t say it out loud. Not yet.

"Do you want to hear it?" The question came out of its own accord, he did not know why he offered that. Somehow they both knew he was talking about the confession.

The man before him also didn’t know why he replied 'yes'.

The phone was brought out, and the last few minutes of the second recording filled the air, making it heavy with emotion. 

And then it came, painful in the vividness of its emotions. " _ I love you, Sherlock. _ " 

They let the silence wash over them, let it ebb their towering waves of grief and love. The John that had the family photo as his lock screen switched his phone on to simply run his thumb over the detective’s face. The other man did not have that privilege. He settled for discreetly running the thick fabric of Sherlock's coat that he left there between his fingers.

"So," he asked the other John, the one without the moustache "how did you agree to all of this?"

It hadn't escaped him how much this John loved his Sherlock. It would have taken a lot of persuasion and coercion to make him agree to something like this.  _ Who could do that?  _ John answered that for himself a split second before this parallel self did. "Mycroft." 

And so the tale of how it all happened was told to the John that hadn't known and both of them speculated quite a bit on who the owner of the Vortex Manipulator was. 

"Beyoncé?" 

"Alan Rickman." 

"Obama?" 

"J K Rowling." 

"Hitler?" 

Their guesses became increasingly ridiculous,until they reached their peak of impossible.

"Trump." 

Both of them broke into a round of laughter, feeling or grief or pain or worry vanishing for some time. 

"No, but really,  _ time travel _ . Marvellous isn't it? It seemed like a far off fantasy to me. Never thought  _ I _ would be the one doing it."

"Yeah, I always thought I would be dead long before anything like this could ever happen. Do you remember how when I-- I mean  _ we _ were young, we used to imagine what we'd do if we could travel back in time." 

"Yeah," the other John laughed, "That we'd kill Hitler and any villain that we could. Be a hero. And that I'd tell my past self the lottery numbers so we could win." 

"Hell, we were gonna be filthy rich." 

Again they laughed, and the conversation seemed to be going easily, flowing without any hitches, and it looked as though they could spend a good hour talking, when Sherlock popped back in. He removed his glasses and cap, placing it on the table top, and his hair looked a little disheveled courtesy of the cap, increasing his adorable quotient. 

"All arrangements made?" The John with the cane asked. 

"Yes, the place I told you about has a room with three mattresses, so we should be fine. It doesn't smell as bad as the rest of the place. We should go now, since we risk being caught by Mycroft's surveillance here." 

He shrugged off John's jacket and wore his own coat again, looking suave as ever when he turned up the coat collar. 

One John got up with his cane and one without, and the latter, as the three were exiting the café, stopped to take out a thread strand from Sherlock's curls. It was a fluid, smooth motion, as if he was used to it, he had done it without thinking, and he deftly removed the strand, patting the patch of hair before walking away. 

_ Perhaps he is used to it _ , thought the other John, gripping his cane harder than was necessary. He was very envious of this John's ability to be so comfortable with Sherlock, to know him so intimately. Most of all he envied the years he had spent with Sherlock, when he himself only had a few days to his name. 

As he walked past Sherlock, he also made a point to dust of an imaginary piece of lint from Sherlock's jacket, though he hardly had the grace and ease in his actions. His heart was beating hard as he performed them, and then hurried past both the men, the tips of his ears pink from all the effort. 

The detective, who had observed the proceedings closely, and had not missed any detail, smiled fondly at the receding figure of John Watson, cane almost suspended in the air in his haste to walk. His John. Sherlock did not shy away from the possessive pronoun now: he was very aware of the fact that he might not have very long to call John anything at all, not long before they wouldn't know each other again. And this time, there would be no audio clips to bring them towards each other. 

They hailed a cab, and the John who was the only one who had money dated 2010 warned the detective that they'd have to be careful of how much they spent. They still had two nights to survive here. 

The cab dropped them off at the entrance of a dark alley, and both Johns gave it wary looks, their shoulders squared and jaws set- in what Sherlock called the Captain Watson Mode.

"I chose this place because there's very little surveillance here, and you can walk around quite a bit without the risk of Mycroft spotting you. And also usually the place is run by Billy, who I know well, but today there's someone else- Erwin- but that shouldn't be a problem." 

The building was three storeys high, and was in shambles: the windows that faced them were either broken or opaque with grime, some of them were boarded up, and the walls were covered in vines, the paint faded behind various stains. Even from the few feet distance, they could smell something peculiar coming from the building. 

"Great then," one of the Johns said. "Yes, perfect." Added the other John, and both of them gave a weary smile to Sherlock, and then each other. 

All three of them walked in, and though the sky was cloudy when they'd come there, the inside of the building was startlingly dark in contrast. 

Also, the place smelled terrible, and from this nearer distance, one could finally make out the contents of the peculiar smell. It was basically like mixture of bodily fluids: human waste and faeces along with sex and unwashed clothes, and lastly, cigarettes. On an impulse all three of them covered their noses, but Sherlock got used to the smell quicker, putting his hand down first. 

It was dark enough that when a figure stepped towards them, both Johns jumped; their eyes had not fully adapted to the darkness, and the man only became visible up close.

"Sherlock," he said in a low, raspy voice. 

"Erwin." Sherlock replied in kind. 

Moustache John could finally see in the dark now, and he saw Erwin's eyes, which shone in the dim light, give a once over to both Johns, and then let out a low whistle. "I never knew you were into this kind of stuff mate. First time I see you do this, and you bring twins? Got an older man fetish?" 

Both johns were surprised at the open lewdness with which this Erwin talked, but only one of them had enough experience being thought of as Sherlock's lover. The other John coloured a little, which was thankfully obscured in the dark, and said indignantly,  " We aren't prostitutes mate, just Sherlock's friends." 

Erwin gave a small laugh, and then said in a lower tone, as if conveying something confidential. "Don't worry, mate. It's all fine over here, you can make as much noise out here, most people are too high to notice,"he gave Johns a knowing wink, "and there may be some people round here who can give you... more jobs." 

John was yet again about to protest and defend his honour, but Sherlock cut him off, with the wave of a hand, "That will be enough, Erwin. You can get back to your...duties now." 

John gave a 'can-you-believe-what-just-happened' look to the other John, who was too used to all of this and therefore just put an assuring hand on the other's arm and followed Sherlock, who was walking up a flight of stairs. 

Quite frankly John was surprised that the stairs didn't turn to dust the moment they were made contact with. They looked ancient, one could have seen the  _ rods _ that held them in place. 

On the first floor, Sherlock led them to a room in their right, opened it with a set of rusty keys, and led the two inside. Blessedly, the room didn't stink as much as the rest of the place did, and had three moldy mattresses placed together to form one large one. It was... like a bad motel room, really. 

"The equivalent of a royal suite, let me inform you." Sherlock said mildly. "Do make yourself at home."

Both Johns snorted in unison, and then looked at each other amused, their faces cracking into goofy grins at having done the same thing at the same time.  _ Adorable _ , Sherlock thought and smiled to himself.

Soon the three were settled on the mattresses bed, with the John with the moustache and Sherlock leaning against the wall, John's cane laid bedside him, and the other John sitting opposite them. 

They sat for a few minutes in silence, before Sherlock broached the topic of John's first unsuccessful attempt. 

John told the two all about it, and when he remarked off-handedly that he'd thought the universe was fighting for them to be together, the John and Sherlock from the other universe exchanged hopeful looks. Perhaps this time too something of the kind could happen. 

Then Sherlock told both the Johns about his encounter- John's second attempt, leaving the part where he'd deduced that John had a husband. 

Moustache John had nothing of the sort to say himself, and so when a long silence made itself known after Sherlock's account, he broke it by narrating a funny incident that had happened in his clinic the other day. 

Soon the three were exchanging stories, Sherlock talking about some eccentric cases, and the other John about daily incidents and accidents that had occurred in 221 B Baker Street. And when he did, the other two used to fall deadly silent, listening intently to a life they would never have. 

Something in the way John spoke reminded the other- moustached- John about a line from a book, but he couldn't remember which book or line. 

John told them anecdotes about criminals who'd tried to escape and failed hilariously, of how Sherlock had caused a fire in the flat once for an experiment, of how Rosie would sometimes imitate the way he spoke in her own garbled language, of how once, when Sherlock had to take Rosie to a park, every parent had grown fond of how much he loved Rosie, and told John that he was a very lucky man.

"Then I had to explain to them that we weren't together and all," John said with pink cheeks, failing to keep a smile off his face, as he remembered how Sherlock refused to accept that he could be called 'cute' by anyone, pouting indignantly.

Suddenly, the line that Moustached John had been trying to remember drifted to the front of his mind.

" _ I am made of memories _ ." He said, and it came out louder than he had intended. Yes. Those were the words he had been searching for. 

"Sorry, what?"  His other self asked him. 

John shook his head, a little distracted. "No, sorry, it's nothing. Say," he asked suddenly, "have you ever read the Song Of Achilles?" 

"No," The John sitting opposite him replied "why?" 

He just shook his head. 

"Isn't he a Greek mythological figure?" Sherlock asked. John watched his other self tease Sherlock. "Why do you know that, Mr.I -only-remember-important-things?"

He himself wouldn't have had read it either, actually,  if it wasn't for Sarah. She'd insisted John read it, and he had; initially a bit uncomfortable with a homosexual romance, but he'd become very engrossed in it as he read further on. 

It was very interesting to read of two lovers who already knew they were doomed- Achilles and Patroclus. Achilles' death already predicted in the near future by a prophecy, and Patroclus sure he wouldn't live without the other half of his soul.

He remembered the words of Patroclus' ghost as he described everything about Achilles to the latter's mother, when both the men had died.  _ I am made of memories. _

_ This, I say. This and this. _

Strangely, that is how his other self felt to John, talking all about his life with the Sherlock Holmes of his universe. Recounting day after day of his life that was about to be erased from the canvas of reality in a short time. 

But Achilles and Patroclus were lovers, was that what John and Sherlock were in the other universe? Of course not, this John had confessed for the first time his love to Sherlock on the recordings. 

And after all, would Sherlock, who loved his work above all else, ever reciprocate those feelings?

No, he possibly couldn't. Even this Sherlock, the one from his own universe, hadn't ever expressed any interest in love, or in John. 

Or had he? John could picture the way Sherlock had caressed his cheek and said:  _ but you're not the least bit ordinary, are you, John Watson? _

The closeness of the man as he pressed into John in the alley. The way he looked at him when he asked John if he wanted to solve a case with Sherlock again. 

Now, he looked at Sherlock, who was talking animatedly to this other John, eyes sparkling as the little strips of light that entered the boarded windows fell in his face.

 He was breathtakingly beautiful.

It struck John suddenly, that he himself might be Patroclus: having only a limited time before his and Achilles' time together would end. He thought about the resolute tone of his parallel universe's self when he'd declared that he wouldn't change his mind, that he'd have to separate the John and Sherlock living in 2010.

Briefly the thought crossed his mind that he shouldn't be thinking of him and Sherlock, he had a goddamn  _ wife _ for Christ's sake. 

But quickly that thought was eclipsed by another: their time together was limited. Soon they would be in a world where they would never have known of each other's existence. 

John couldn't think of not knowing Sherlock now. Of not being fascinated by his deductions, of not running around with him on his adventures. 

A few days, and Sherlock Holmes had taken over his life. And by  _ God _ , he'd loved every second of it.

 But not for long now. John had been in a dream, the best one, and now he was about to wake up to reality.

Suddenly, his chest constricted painfully, and moisture gathered in his eyes. His heart hammered uneasily, and a wild, unforgiving energy erupted in his chest. He stood up, wanting badly to release the pent up energy. 

"I feel too stuffy here," he announced to a curious John and Sherlock. "I'll roam outside for a few seconds." And with this he practically ran out of the room, and down the stairs, his cane a few good inches above the ground.

The John and Sherlock upstairs continued their conversation a little, when John remarked, "He was right. It is a bit stuffy over here. You did say we could walk around outside didn't you?" 

"Yes," Sherlock replied, standing up, "we can walk around the block without the danger of being noticed by Mycroft." 

"Good, let's go then." John himself stood up, and the two walked down the stairs, heading towards the main door, which stood open. 

But as soon as they reach the door, Sherlock wished they hadn't. A man stood a feet before the entrance, the light from outside outlining him, but his face and body were heavy with shadows, and he gave Sherlock a menacing smile. 

Donald Meyer. A previous supplier. And in 2010, Sherlock's current supplier. He didn't know what his past self of 2010 had done, most likely not paid back for some drugs, but he was sure that this was not going to end well. 

"Freak." He greeted Sherlock, and beside him the detective could see John's jaw tighten. He himself didn't really mind, it's what most people called him, and if the said person could supply him drugs-- he could call Sherlock 'Mycroft' for all he cared. He simply nodded once in reply. 

"Been getting high for too long without any compensation, haven't we? Though I heard you do have money to spend, and that you've spent it on two hoes-- twins, wasn't it?" He looked towards a corner of the little room, and Eriwn- the man who had replaced Billy, stepped forward, with a smug grin on that pathetic face of his. 

Erwin, the bastard. He should have known that it was strange that Billy wasn't there on his regular day. That something was wrong. 

"Look, whatever it is, I'll pay later." Sherlock said, and tried to go past him. 

"No, no, no. You've done that enough times already. Cough up now, or you know what will happen." Meyer waved his fist threateningly in Sherlock's face, and took a step forward, inserting himself in Sherlock's personal space. 

"Back off," John warned Meyer, "he said he'll pay you back later." 

"Oh, so now the hoe gets a say?" Meyer sneered at John. 

John clenched his teeth, grinding them hard. "Shut up now, or you won't even be fit to regret it later." 

"John," Sherlock moved towards John, to pacify him. But before he could get in another word, Meyer spit out. 

"You're a freak and a faggot both. Maybe you will deserve the beating I'll give you." 

It became too much for John, and quick as lightning, he raced towards Meyer, slamming him hard on the wall next to the open door for the exit, one hand pinning him against the wall, and the other at Meyer's neck. "Don't you dare call him any of that again." He bit out, his voice was very low, his teeth bared out like an animal's, and his features contorted into an expression of extreme disgust and livid fury. 

Sherlock thought that the entirety of heaven and hell, if such things could ever exist, would tremble before the wrath of John Watson. 

But Donald Meyer was a prick, and a massive one at that, and would not give up without a fight. He managed to dislodge an arm from John's hold, and punched him hard, which caused John to relax his grip, and the bastard wriggled out of his grip, coughing and trying to breathe, choking on the air around him. 

But it took Meyer as much time to recover from the lack of air passing down this trachea as it took John to recover from a hard punch to the gut. 

In a matter of seconds they were at each other's throats again, punching and kicking at each other. 

Meyer tried to deliver a sharp kick to John's abdomen, but John dodged, pushing Meyer's leg just a little to surprise him and cause imbalance. It did the trick, and Meyer swayed dangerously to one side, giving John all the opportunity he needed to end the fight-- and Meyer. 

Suddenly, an image flashed in John's mind: a similar dark corridor, and a similar but much less of a bastard than Meyer threatening John. Billy Wiggins, he would call the man later. 

And then, as though by its own accord, John's hand moved to sprain the arm of the man before him, looping his foot around the lower leg and yanking fiercely, so that he howled with pain loudly before he even hit the floor. 

_ Fucking brilliant _ , Sherlock thought. Fucking fantastic. John Watson was fucking brilliant and fantastic. 

But this small moment of admiration proved to be a brief but unfortunate distraction. He did not see Erwin creeping behind John with a metal tool of some kind before he had swung it. 

Sherlock launched forward, already knowing it was too late for him to do anything, and shut his eyes to not have to see it, all the while straining his ears for the sickening crack. 

It never came. 

Instead, he heard a sound of something hitting flesh, a muffled cry that was most certainly not John's, and the sound of metal clattering on the wooden floor. 

He opened his eyes in surprise. 

The John Watson with the moustache, stood with his hand retracting from Erwin's throat who stood there gasping for air, clutching at his throat. And then that John sniffed in the way that he did when something was immensely not to his liking, in a half sneer, clenching and unclenching his fist, holding his cane as a king would hold his sceptre.

"All good here?" He asked, his voice fatally quiet, and his eyes running over Sherlock and then the other John for confirmation.  "I heard some noise, and thought I should check in."

The two John Watsons stood side by side, half of their bodies in dark shadows, and the other half covered in sunlight from the sides of the open door, making some of their hair gleam like a halo. 

Half demon, half angel. 

Fitting, Sherlock thought, because the emotions which coursed through him in that moment had the power to both take his breath away and bring him back to life. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaannd here's another one!!! Yes, I just recently read The Song Of Achilles, and I am in LOVE with it. So yeah, I had to put in some references. 
> 
> Also, I hope you like the imagery in the last scene- half angel and half demon. 
> 
> As always, a HUGE THANKS TO Vanshika, who makes everything so much better. <3
> 
> And if you like the story, please leave kudos or comments...


	13. Love And Other Drugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get a scolding from Moustached John, and Sherlock tells the John from another universe all about his 'high' past.

The door shut with a loud slam. Sherlock was grinning. _ Oh it was brilliant! _ But his grin slid off his face as soon as he realised that something was wrong. 

Both John Watsons should have been proud of the way they'd saved Sherlock, instead their faces were grim, and they exchanged meaningful looks, communicating the way perhaps only a person can to oneself. 

Downstairs, after the great bashing Meyer and Erwin had received, they left the premises together, and Meyer exited spewing curse words and a promise to get back at him, once Sherlock's hoes had left him. But none of that mattered, because the Johns had been wonderful, fantastic and Sherlock wanted to make sure they knew it. 

As he proceeded to open his mouth to utter words of praise, the John with no moustache or cane asked him, "Does this happen again?" 

This John was not aware of this Sherlock's constant drug abuse in the future yet, but had assumed that Sherlock used to get high some years back, and that he'd stopped now. 

"Sorry?" Sherlock wasn't quite sure what John meant. His mind was still buzzing with the giddy feeling of seeing two Johns in their full glory. 

"This man, Meyer, does he bother you again?" John tried to conceal whatever he was feeling at the moment, there was no need to jump to conclusions. 

"Yes, actually." Sherlock says nonchalantly. Surely, none of that matters now. 

"Fuck." This came from both the men in front of Sherlock, who were behaving as though something very frustrating had been said by the detective. 

It was then that he realised what the two army doctors were upset about, and at once he set down to reassure them. "Don't worry, most of the times I'm able to stand my ground very well." It was an outright lie, he remembered being beaten up many times. 

They weren't as many as one might think, but the number was not a small one either. Every some time the clients were less, or it had been difficult to nick money off Mycroft. The older Holmes had seen to it that most of the drug dealers did not do business with Sherlock, so that the ones that could, were very shady and had extreme measures of extracting money. 

But not a word of this would he tell to either John.

John Watson, in any universe or timeline, was always noted for the way in which he could read Sherlock Holmes and understand him. And so the very same mind, that could ascertain if the tantrum Sherlock was throwing had any foundation at all, also saw through the lie. 

Yes, Sherlock had only meant to console them, but somehow the fact that he'd tried to conceal it made it worse. 

"Sherlock," moustached John's voice was full of remorse, "I'm so sorry. I wish," his features hardened instantly, and in a split second he'd turned into a soldier in the dusty lands of Afghanistan, as capable of taking a life as he was in saving one, "I wish I had fucking finished them right then and there." 

"It's alright, John. I already told you, it wasn't that much of a problem." He was beginning to be irritated by the glum attitude of the two men. Couldn't they enjoy, if only momentarily, at the frankly brilliant victory they'd scored?

"Shit Sherlock," the other John said, pacing the small room, "you're making it more and more difficult for me to do what I came here to do. I- I can't leave you like this." He ran a hand through his hair. 

Perhaps it was the irritation that caused Sherlock to say what he said next, perhaps the idea to finally speak out what he'd been thinking for a long time prompted him to speak. "Maybe it's because you shouldn't be doing it." He said in a quiet voice

John's jaw tightened, and he said in a low growl, "You don't know what you're talking about." 

It was never, even in the best of times, a good idea to challenge Sherlock Holmes, and this comment made the detective throw all his restrain to the wind as he bellowed at John with all the frustration and anger building up inside him because of this whole mess. 

"I don't  _ know _ ?! First of all, John, I'm not a damsel in distress for you to rescue! I have survived on my own in my universe and I can do so in this one as well! 

"Oh, and John, I do very well know what I'm _talking_ _about_. I'm asking you to not let your self doubt and hatred come in the way of ruining the lives of all three of us. _Don't_ let your insecurity be the deciding factor of what my future will be. Because, you see, John Watson is best thing that has ever happened to me, and I will _not_ let you take it away from me!"

It was ironic that he'd exposed John's greatest insecurities and declared the sheer need he had for the army doctor in one sentence. The John that this was addressed to saw this and gave a low, disbelieving yet fascinated chuckle, convinced that in all of this world, the only man who could do such a thing was the one in front of him. He was about to argue something back, when the other John that had been silent all this time cut both of them off. 

" _ Enough _ ." His voice was that dangerous calm, in those soft tones, that signalled that the man had reached his limits. To test them any more would be explosive. 

"Both of you. Enough. Stop behaving like this is a bloody debate with a 'for' and 'against'. It's our fucking lives we're talking about. And yes John, perhaps you should respect the fact that your future self is telling you to stop going down the road that I have lived. But Sherlock, that does not give you the slightest right to call him out like that." He said the last sentence carefully, so that the 'him' did not become an 'us', even though an 'us' would have been true also. 

Sherlock turned to the man leaning on the cane, "John, the first day we met, I exposed  _ you _ . I called you out on the state of your  _ marriage _ for god sakes. You didn't seem to mind then." 

"I still don't, Sherlock. And if this John is anything like me, then he doesn't either." John's voice was so different now, softer and calmer in a manner that was soothing. "But when you did this, You forgot that all his concerns are for  _ you,  _ Sherlock. It's all he's cared about."

Sherlock looked at the other John, who provided confirmation to this by steadfastly not meeting Sherlock's eyes. 

But then the detective remembered something from that morning and fury bubbled in him black and consuming. "Does that make his selfishness correct, John?" He asked his John. "Even before he was about to do this, something that had life altering consequences  _ literally _ , he didn't even think it was a good idea to at least  _ ask _ me once about it."

"Oh.  You mean, ask  _ you _ , the other you, once about it? Hmm? I'll have you know that that was the same Sherlock who didn't tell me a single fucking thing when he jumped of the roof of St Bart's," John gulped, blinking his eyes rapidly, "and let me think he was dead for  _ two years _ ." 

" _ Shut up! _ " It was a proper shout this time from moustached John, who looked even more older than the moustache made him look, and more than anything looked very, very tired. "Stop your blame games this instant! I'm so fucking tired of you screaming your heads off at each other. Now, both of you will shut the fuck up while I get us dinner, then eat the fucking food I put in front of you," he gave Sherlock a pointed look, "and then go to sleep. We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow. Do you understand me?" 

John's voice was like a disappointed parent's, and be thought gleefully inside, that though he had no children of his own, taking care of his friends' children had given him pretty good practice. And just like little, guilty children, the other John and Sherlock stopped talking, and instead settled for mumbling whatever they wanted to say to each other under their breaths. 

Moustached John went downstairs to get them food. But it being a den, finding food was difficult. It was over an hour later, when both the Moustacheless John and Sherlock were getting worried about the other John's long absence, when the man in question came up the stairs. 

His caneless self was about to berate him for wandering about unnecessarily, when he spoke, "Yes, I know, I know." He put the take out bag on the floor, holding up a hand, the other gripping the cane and a polybag lightly, "but I thought of bringing something along, you know. I just wondered what we'd do with all the time we had. So I..." He drifted off, his left hand digging into the cane's handle and the polybag. Moments later, he pulled out two books and a newspaper from the bag. 

Sherlock sniffed a little at this, evidently feeling whiny about the telling off he'd received from John. 

"And yes, I haven't spent too much on it, we have more than enough for tomorrow." He added as he saw the look on the other John's face. "And Sherlock, don't look like that, You can deduce all about the crimes that are in the newspaper, okay? "

The fondness and affectionate tones that John used seemed to lessen Sherlock's pout, but the detective nonetheless maintained his strop, a lot like a child pretending to throw a tantrum. However, after a few minutes of staring at the wall, he accepted the newspaper, and began to examine it thoroughly. 

Moustacheless John smiled- the other John needn't have worried that he didn't know the detective for long: he already had summed up the man quite well.

Moustached John sat down next to his parallel universe self, leaning his cane against the wall. 

He handed him a book, which turned out to be some detective story by Agatha Christie, and himself had an old classic The Catcher In The Rye. Moustached John glanced sideways at his twin.

"So, what do you think the John of 2010 is doing right now? The gun ritual?" He asked, hoping his tone seemed light and easy. The gun ritual, however, was nothing like a ritual, and  _ even now _ , he thought with a shudder,  _ he could taste it.  _

"No," his other self's voice was so soft, and he gasped a little after he said it, as though he'd just realised it. It brought the Moustached John back to the present. "I spent the night looking him up on the internet." His fingers lazily pointed to a Sherlock intently looking at an article in the newspaper John had gotten him. 

They looked at each other, and instantly knew that they were both reliving the same memory: their eyes held identical haunted looks. 

_ It was the same old process. _

_ The gun. In his hand. Cold metal against warm skin. He pressed a  button, and out slid the magazine. Then, he thumbed out the bullets, one by one. He could hear the clinking, as they hit the table, in the silent, gloomy flat.   _

_ With a practiced hand, he re-inserted the magazine. The gun was  in his mouth, the safety he had turned off and it's muzzle rested on his tongue.  _

_ He closed his eyes, ears straining for an outside sound, but there was none.  _

_ It was silent enough for him to hear the blood thumping in his ears, his heart beating a mile a minute. His finger trembled as he pulled on the trigger, and tried unsuccessfully to pull it all the way, even though the magazine was empty.  _

_ And then, willing himself not to think, he exerted force on the trigger.  _

_ One swift motion.  _

_ The sound of a gun pushing forward the object in its muzzle. The sound was hollow, empty. _

_ And then, nothing.  _

_ Nothing.  _

_ Nothing except the sound of muffled sobs escaping John's lips, and ragged gasps, and the dull thud as his gun slid to the floor. _

Then both of them fell silent, only too aware of how much this meant. After weeks and weeks of doing it, Sherlock Holmes had broken the sinister tradition. And without asking, John knew that his twin self had never limped again, and never put the gun in his mouth again. 

Except, he was wrong. The man beside him had once more attempted to take his life, when Sherlock had been dead for two years. But illusions are happier than the truth, and sometimes, happier was better.

"The website was quite something, eh? What with the identifying a pilot by his thumb and all." Moustached John looked to his right with a reminiscing smile. 

Both of them remembered the utter disbelief and thinking that the bloke had taken showing off too far. And the derisive snort that had made itself known when they'd read it the first time. 

They looked at each other slowly, and finding that their minds were on the same thoughts burst out in little giggles, their past ghosts blessedly forgotten. 

Sherlock looked up sharply from the newspaper, but was evidently still none too happy about his John's Outburst to want to indulge in whatever this humour was about. 

Soon their laughter died down, and John asked a question that Moustached John knew would come up eventually. "When did you stop it?" It was an obvious reference to the gun ritual, and the latter sighed as he answered, "A good while later." 

The truth was that it had been months before he'd stopped, because of the new job and Sarah sometimes staying over at his place. He'd compressed it into a little ball and thrown it into a dark corner of his mind, but even now he could feel the allure of the gun, promising a quick end, however untidy. But he'd never been able to do it. He'd tried once, the magazine full, but the muzzle, as soon has he'd put it in his mouth, seemed to choke him. 

He looked as though he was at war with himself, before he asked his other self in a helpless voice, "You understand how it is, don't you? You'd do anything to keep him safe, even if it meant..." He pointed towards Moustacheless John, and really, it should have been insulting, but the latter wasn't offended. He knew what his other self meant. And in a way, he agreed with him. "But he isn't as safe as you think he is." Moustached John heard himself say. When he was asked what he meant by that, he shook his head. This was Sherlock's truth to tell. 

He stood up from beside the other John, and then sat in his own separate corner, on his mattress.

Then, eventually, none of them could bear it any longer, and abandoned their books and newspapers and settled down to sleep. Before he went to bed however,  Moustached John limped up to Sherlock with his cane and told him, "You know, you should tell him about the drugs. He thinks you're safe and happy. But you aren't, and he needs to know that. Think about it." 

The darkness that surrounded them when they switched off the light was astounding, and it was several minutes before their night vision settled in, aided by beams of moonlight peeking in from the gaps in the boards. 

Despite the darkness, sleep was elusive to them that night. 

Sherlock as it is never slept, and it wasn't much of a surprise when he exited the room thirty minutes later. Both the Johns were wide awake, of course, and both of them felt the need to follow the detective downstairs, to ensure that Sherlock didn't indulge in the drugs that were easily available. Both of them moved to follow him, but then moustached John pretended to be asleep, letting the other John go, and hoping that Sherlock would use the opportunity to tell the other John about the drugs. 

The latter had left his phone on his mattress, and so when John heard the door shut behind him, he walked up to the mattress at the far end of the room and picked up the phone. It was locked with a fingerprint, and here John took advantage of their identical body and got into the phone. He opened the gallery. 

For as long as John could, until he heard two pairs of feet come up the stairs, he looked at the images on the other John's phone- stills of a life he could never have. 

He stared and stared at the beautiful combination of pixels in front of him and a tear escaped unbidden from his eye. He kept looking at the pictures until he heard the telltale wooden stairs creaking and proceeded to limp back to his own mattress. It would be for the best that he would have forgotten these images twenty-four hours later, otherwise they would become the stuff of paradise and nightmares all at once. 

He turned his back to the door, and not ten seconds later, the other John, and Sherlock, entered the room and went quietly to their respective sleeping arrangements. 

And as dawn approached, a few hours later, Sherlock was still wide awake, the other two men having drifted off into an uneasy sleep. Staring at the ceiling, he replayed the events that had taken place only hours ago. 

John had exited the building three minutes after Sherlock had, and on seeing the detective lighting a cigarette, John rushed to man and snatched the offending item off him, throwing it to the ground, and snubbing it with the heel of his shoe. 

He had been standing under a street light, but in the side not facing the light source, so that his body was in dark shadows. John had identified him from the flame of the lighter.

"Sherlock," he hissed, "I thought you promised us you wouldn't do this kind of shit." 

"Oh John," Sherlock drawled, "I said I wouldn't use drugs. This isn't drugs. I kept my promise."

"Cut it off." John obviously wasn't in the mood to be fucked around with, and Sherlock, sensing that, abandoned his warped explanations. Then, John asked in a softer voice, "Couldn't sleep?"

"I never sleep, John." Sherlock reminded him, and the man in front of him smiled a little. "Sometimes you do, you know."

Sherlock looked at him all offended, and John gave a small laugh. "Really! Sometimes, when there's been a particularly trying case, you'll take a nap on the couch. Of course, I bully you into going to your bed, but you don't always listen, and then all I can do is put a blanket on you." 

Both of them fell silent.

Sherlock pictured the moment. Him, sleeping on the couch, the flat peacefully silent, and in the dim golden glow, John slowly draping a blanket over the sleeping form, his fingers brushing over Sherlock's skin. 

The sheer intimacy of the action threatened to tear open Sherlock's heart, and he looked away to hide whatever his features could potentially betray. He would never get to experience it himself and that in itself was enough for him to want to crawl back to the drugs. The solace cocaine would given him would be heavenly. He looked back at John, staring at the crop of hair gleaming in the dim light.

As he looked at the small army doctor in front of him, he thought of what the other John had told him. About telling the truth.

He cleared his throat. "John," his voice was a bit raspy, but he quickly brought it under his control. He was an expert at acting, after all. "There's something I need to tell you. You were wrong." 

John, who had been briefly transported to Baker Street, reliving the moment Sherlock could only imagine, broke out of his reviere with a start. "Hmm? Wrong? About what?" Confusion was clear on his face. 

"About my universe being the better one." John opened his mouth to argue, but Sherlock cut him off, imploring him to listen. "I never told you why Moriarty left. I didn't tell you about the incident."

John inhaled sharply. Anything Moriarty related could never be good.

"You had the five pips too, yes? Well, in the third pip, there was an old woman strapped to the bomb, and she tried to..." Sherlock gulped, closing his eyes and letting out a shaky breath. 

John remembered too. " _ His voice was soft like silk, _ " She had said, before there was a loud explosion, and the call ended. 

"She tried to tell me something about him-- Moriarty. He blew her up for it. I… it affected me… very much. Until then, I had been thinking it was all a game. But then it wasn't. And so to cope, I--" he didn't need to finish. John instinctively knew that the pale hand had reached out for a syringe. He grimaced. 

"I used, a little at first then more." Sherlock continued. "By the time I reached the pool, he'd called me there, I was -- very high. Almost OD'd seconds before I met him. He was... disappointed. That I had used." Sherlock's mouth turned to a grimace himself as he recollected the encounter. "He asked me why I did so, and I told him it was because of the old lady. And that he had no right to kill her."

Sherlock stopped for a few seconds, trying to gauge John's reaction. John's face was a beautiful mixture of concern for Sherlock, anger on Moriarty, and some pain at the death of the old lady. It encouraged Sherlock to continue, convinced, if only a little, that John would not hate him as much when he knew the truth. The truth of what Sherlock really was. 

"He-sneered at me. Told me that I was nothing but a junkie-- who got smart when he was high. You see he thought that I was high the whole time I'd been solving his little puzzles." He bit out the last word, as if disgusted by it, and perhaps by himself too. "He told me that I was good for nothing but for him to --fuck my face-- one day, if he felt like it." Even as he said it, a shiver passed down Sherlock's spine. He didn't know why he'd told John the last part. Indeed he'd been regretting what he'd already told John. Now John would pity him, or perhaps realize that Moriarty had been right-- that was Sherlock's chief fear. 

That is why he hadn't told any of this to his John either.

The way his John looked at him-- he'd taken the 'his' into his stride now-- like he'd done something amazing, as if he'd hung the sun in the sky. 

It had been the early days of their acquaintance after all, and Sherlock wanted things to be that way for a little while-- before his John too realized that Moriarty's words were true.  _ The only days of their acquaintance _ , Sherlock thought suddenly,  _ for now it was about to end. _ It was a painful thought, and in its pain, he forgot all about not looking a John, and sneaked a glance at him. 

John-- was angry. Furious. This surprised Sherlock greatly, because it hadn't been a reaction he'd been expecting. Leaving him even more flummoxed, was that John was not angry at him. 

"That son of a bitch."  John growled, " how  _ dare  _ he? Sherlock, you are the most amazing, brilliant, intelligent man that I've ever known. So don't believe a single word that sick bastard told you."  He grabbed Sherlock's arm, "You know that, yes?" 

John was so earnest in his admiration for Sherlock, in his disgust for Moriarty. He had meant every word of it. He cared for Sherlock now every bit as much as he had nine years ago, when he'd pleaded Sherlock to stop consuming drugs.

Sherlock shook his head to himself. John Watson would forever be a mystery to him.  Every time he thought he knew the army doctor, he was instantly surprised. But John was about to be disappointed now, even if he wasn't before.

"And so, I've gone to rehab six times, and OD'd four times in the past eight and a half years." 

"Eight and a half?" John asked him, momentarily fixated on this one little detail to not fully absorb the meaning of what Sherlock had said. 

"Well, remember how I told you that you'd asked me to not abuse drugs when you came to St Bart's? You cared about it--about me. I could tell. So, I -- stopped for some time. That is until the whole Moriarty debacle took place. So eight and a half years."

"Christ," John muttered. "Sherlock, I-- fuck. OD'd  _ four _ times?  _ Fuck _ ." 

Sherlock laughed weakly, "I take it the other Sherlock does not use as much." 

"Yeah-- I mean," John faltered, "I did manage to keep him clean for a good long time. But there were times," John gulped, blinking rapidly, "when I wasn't there, and you used-- fuck, there was a time when I  _ was _ there but I was too much of an idiot to see it--" 

John's voice broke, and Sherlock could hear him take forced, ragged breaths for a few minutes, before he whispered,  "I wish-- I wish I could have been  _ there _ all those times. I wish I'd never left--  _ you _ 'd never left."  John bit his lip and his eyes glistened dangerously. 

"Do you know something, John," Sherlock's voice was as soft and smooth as satin, and he looked straight into John's eyes as he said, "I firmly believe that despite time travel-- despite everything, we can never change all the major decisions we've made. But what we  _ can _ do, is grab the present, make amends and do all that we should have done before. It's the only thing-- the best we can do." 

John looked at Sherlock, hard and long, for many many endless minutes, the latter's heart beating faster than he'd like to admit, as he gazed into the blue pools that were almost black in the dark. 

At last John spoke.

"We need at least a few hours of sleep. Lets head back up, otherwise your John will start getting jealous." It was meant to be a joke, but both of them were too emotionally exhausted to even acknowledge it. 

Silently they walked upstairs and into their room, hearing only the low murmurs of people in another, drugged world. 

When they got into the room, Sherlock sensed that the other John was still awake.

That night, as he stared at the ceiling, for sleep would be nearly impossible, he thought about John's actions downstairs, and allowed himself to hope, just a little, that the tiny army doctor would change his mind. 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh such angst   
> Anyways, John knows Sherlock so well( taking about both Johns here)
> 
> As always, a HUGE THANKS TO Vanshika, who makes everything so much better!!!!!
> 
> And if you like the story, please leave kudos or comments. <333333


	14. 29th January 2010, Once Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio go from Baker Street to the scene of John's crime, with the John Watson of the other dimension as their tour guide

It was the next day, when the afternoon was fading into the oncoming evening, when the trio started their tour of how John and Sherlock Holmes had truly met.   


The previous part of the day was spent in resting, talking to each other idly, and the clean shaven John describing his meeting with Sherlock at St Bart's all those years ago, which in this reality was only yesterday, and neither John could hide their admiration when Sherlock's deductions were discussed. 

_ Fuck _ , Sherlock swore softly, looking at the two Johns positively beaming at him. He wasn't sure if he'd ever seen anything nearly as beautiful as this. 

Or as heartbreaking. He couldn't stop thinking about the inevitable, the past being rewritten, their forgetting each other. Sherlock having to live as he'd always done, alone. 

_ No _ , he shook his head, it would be blasphemy to taint these beautiful moments with doubt and foreboding.  _ Not yet. _

So instead he smiled back at the two men, firing up every neuron to collect data about the different aspects of these few seconds: the angle of the sunlight, the colour of their eyes, the source of warmth and light that seemed to be emanating from the two Johns. Surely, human beings didn't have an aura or didn't generate enough heat for it to seep through Sherlock's skin? 

And in this manner, the three had spent hours and hours, having an adequate brunch somewhere in between, and when the sky was slowly losing its blue hue, they left the damp gloomy drug den to head towards Baker Street. 

The cab driver that they'd hailed looked at interest at the two Johns, presuming them to be twins, and Sherlock spotted him eyeing the two in the rear view mirror more than once, trying to make out any visible differences between them. One obvious one was the moustache, but there was unlikely that he would find another. They exited the cab at the corner of Baker Street, and moustached John tugged at the sleeve of his other self. "We're over there!" 

It was a bit strange really, how quickly the two Johns had gotten accustomed to being part of a single unit, and referring to their past self as a product of the two Johns themselves. 

And indeed, a limping army doctor exited a cab and gazed up and across the buildings of Baker Street, merged together in a single row, particularly at the black wooden door that bore the words "221B" in brass letters and a slightly awry knocker. 

The three had been positioned in a corner that was mostly in the shadows, which gave them a good view of the entrance and was not in direct view of Mycroft's cameras. They watched as the tiny army doctor met Sherlock as he stepped out of his own cab, and as the two men shook hands. 

Clean shaven John, the one without any cane, could practically hear them from the several feet distance as Mrs Hudson opened the door. 

It was like a movie scene being played out in front of them and he could recall somehow, word for word what was being said, and that tugged at his heart in a manner it should not have. He wondered if doing this was such a good idea anymore. How long until the tugging became an unbearable ache?

These ramblings however, came to a stop when Sherlock asked him, "What happened upstairs?" 

And so John recounted the conversation that was taking place in the flat of 221B, even as they watched Lestrade come at the door, and a few minutes later, the door open to show both John and Sherlock coming out of it, following Lestrade in their own cab. 

Then the trio headed towards the crime scene, and moustached John was filled in about the particulars of the crime, though he did remember some details from nine years ago. Three serial killings was hardly something a person could forget. 

This time, it was Sherlock who explained the deductions he'd made, and the moustacheless John told the other two about the ejaculations of 'Fantastic!' And 'brilliant!' that he'd made all the while-- earning a bout of laughter from the other John, who could relate only too well to the sensations. 

When the group saw a young Sherlock practically sprint away from the crime scene, moustached John looked at his Sherlock quizzically, to which the latter replied, "I was going to a garbage dump to find the suitcase." 

"What?! Why?" John looked shocked and a little scandalized. 

"I deduced, that like everything else, her suitcase must have been pink too, which was left in the cab with the murderer. Obviously, he would have to get rid of it, for which he would go to the nearest garbage dump. So, I went there too." 

"Well, wow. Okay. But Christ I  _ cannot _ picture it." John looked up and down at Sherlock's expensive and tailored clothes, and tried to imagine them amidst the accumulated waste of London. He failed. 

"I must do whatever necessity dictates to solve a case, John." Sherlock said airily.

And the John who was from a universe different from theirs, the one who had seen plenty examples of this statement being proved true, smirked, and counted them off on his fingers.

"Dressing as a vicar, getting punched by me in the said vicar costume,  _ proposing _ to the woman who was the maid of honor at my wedding, marching in the  _ Queen _ 's march past band, making me coffee with what he thought was a hallucination-inducing drug- turned out to be just sugar though, threatening to  _ shoot _ me, and holding me captive, going to someone's flat by climbing down the  _ balcony _ , and on one memorable occasion, pretending to die by throwing himself off the roof of St Bart's." He'd tried to say the last part lightly, but he could not subdue the bitterness in his voice, and Sherlock looked momentarily uncomfortable accordingly, when the other John giggled. 

"Christ! Each of these things is crazier than the next! Did you really propose marriage to someone for a case?" He asked, incredulous, though this Sherlock could not have possibly known about any of it.

Sherlock shrugged, "It is entirely possible that I may have done so, if there was a plausible reason for it." Then, as his gaze swept around, he saw the receding limping figure of the young John Watson, whom none of them had seen in their amusement of Sherlock's antics.

Quickly, he caught the attention of the two Johns, and together they pursued him, walking a few feet away, so that he'd always be in sight. 

When the phones in the empty phonebox started ringing, however, moustached John had the strange sensation of deja-vu, and he exchanged looks with the other two. All of them, it seemed, were aware of Mycroft's methods of kidnapping people to talk to them. "You know," he said, a bit embarrassed, "when I first met him I thought he was a..."

"Criminal mastermind." The other John finished for him, laughter bubbling in his voice. 

And the conversation between the three of them flowed easily as they watched John get into the car, and saw the car stop at Baker Street sometime later, when they were walking towards the next exhibit- Angelo's. Everything was going fine until the John of 2010 ran out with Sherlock, chasing who they thought was the murderer in the back seat of the cab. 

There was a sudden silence from the John who still used his cane, and Sherlock could see that he was leaning more than usual on his cane.

When they finally reached Baker Street, it was just in time to see  young John and Sherlock race to the door, panting, and get inside the lobby. 

Moustached John looked up at the sky, his eyes shining more than they should've in the streetlights. He still didn't say a word when Angelo rang the bell to the flat, and a confused, then puzzled, then dazed and  _ ecstatic _ John Watson took the cane from him, looking back at Sherlock as if he'd hung the moon in the night sky.

Both Sherlock and Unmoustached John looked steadfastly at the scene, wanting to let the other John have a moment of privacy. 

The latter twirled his cane against the gravel, only half believing that the man who was limping not an hour ago could have looked at his cane without needing it. It was a reminder of how incomplete he himself was, of how broken the war had left him. His stomach seemed to be jumping all about the place, and John knew no way of easing the knot that had begun to form in it.

"Thank you." he blurted out to Sherlock, who looked uneasy and replied in a careful tone, "You are welcome, I suppose. However, John, that person is not me, since  _ I _ per se,  have not done this. However, if you wanted, I could do so with you." His expression was of one who expected immediate backlash, his posture all but ready to spring up in a defensive position.

"Thank you for the offer, but I think I'll stay put for now." John didn't voice his real anxiety, carefully feigning mild amusement. "So, John, what happened next?" He couldn't tell Sherlock, couldn't even tell his alternate self that he was afraid: afraid he'd be nine years too broken to ever be the way he was before, afraid that his limp, like the ghosts of his past, were a permanent part of him. 

As if Sherlock Holmes had ever needed words to understand him. But he would deal with his John later. 

The other John took the hint and quickly diverted the conversation to the events taking place at the flat above them: how everyone in the flat had helped in figuring out the puzzle ( _ except Anderson _ , Sherlock was sure), and how everything seemed to be slotting into place. Almost as if on cue, a sinisterly silent cab pulled up to the building, and a man in perhaps his fifties, stepped out, ringing the bell next to the door and going inside after a few minutes. 

"It's him. The murderer." The John who'd already gone through these events announced, in a low voice, as if it was possible that the cabbie would hear him. 

They waited with bated breath as the young Sherlock came down with him to the vehicle, and stepped into it.

"There was no other way." Sherlock said, eyes rapt on the cab as its engine came to life. "I always knew there was a possibility I could die. But it had to be done. I had to know." 

His eyes had a frenzy in them, and they searched  _ his _ John's eyes, willing the man to understand him. _ I had to know. _

"Yes," his John sighed, "You had to know." It wasn't a condescending, or disapproving sigh. It was rather the kind which was accompanied by a fond look, as moustacheless John himself would often give to  _ his _ Sherlock. "Let's go there then." 

Then the party moved to the last exhibit of the evening, spending the last of their money in taking the cab so that they would not be late. 

Scrambling out from the back of the cab, the three quickly positioned themselves inside the second building of the college, the one in which young Sherlock was at the moment, near a window diagonal to 2010's John's. It gave a fair view of Sherlock and the serial killer cabbie as well. From their vantage point, thankfully, at least John was closely visible, so that it was possible to even read the expressions on his face.

They were a bit late, as 2010's John was already near the window, calling out Sherlock's name. And Sherlock, on the other side, stood with the pill near his lips, hand poised to put it in, with only the cabbie's back visible to the trio, who could see everything. 

"The bastard, he was ready to eat the pill." The John, who'd already seen Sherlock do this, and had pulled the trigger on the cabbie, informed the other John and Sherlock. 

_ I  _ had _ eaten the pill _ , Sherlock thought. 

"He should thank his stars I was there to save him." The caneless John continued, forgetting entirely that another Sherlock stood beside him, one that did not have a John Watson there to shoot the criminal.

Moustached John listened absentmindedly, his gaze and thoughts focused solely on his parallel self from 2010. He watched as the young army doctor positioned his gun, took aim and pulled the trigger, all the while looking for signs of hesitation. 

He'd found it hard to believe that his own self could kill a person to save someone whom he'd only just met. He was sure he'd find some hesitation a moment before he pulled the trigger, or guilt after he'd done the deed. 

None. There was no hesitation or guilt to be seen. Only relief and triumph. 

_ Oh _ , moustached John thought a bit dazedly,  _ I did not repent this choice now, nor will I in the future. Perhaps it is impossible to repent saving Sherlock Holmes.  _

On the other side, they saw the cabbie stagger and then fall down, and the young Sherlock running to the window to examine the bullet hole and peep through it. The John who'd just killed a man silently walked into the shadows, and would later be a curious bystander to the police enquiry. 

"You're a smart bloke, Sherlock," Unmoustached John said dryly, "a shot is fired from a window and you immediately place yourself in front of it to  _ investigate _ ." 

Sherlock was too deep in thought to be fully annoyed at John, and replied in dismissing tones, "I must be well aware that the spot was no longer actively dangerous, and it would be the best chance to see a glimpse of the perpetrator."

"Oi, watch what you call me." John's moustached counterpart elbowed Sherlock lightly. 

Again, Sherlock was too busy in his mind palace to fully feel the impact of the elbow. His mind raced through the events of his very moment in his timeline, feeling sure that he'd missed something. 

"Blimey," the John who had been speaking continued, "and there in  _ my _ version the most exciting thing that had happened was that I'd called an ambulance for a bloke who got into an accident in the park." Though the event had been something, it certainly couldn't compare to the night that the John and Sherlock of 2010 had just had. 

On hearing Moustached John's words, the last piece slid into place, the picture complete and clear in Sherlock's mind. "Oh  _ John _ ," he breathed out to the tiny man fidgeting with his cane-- who had no idea of just how  _ wonderful _ he was-- "You just saved my life!" 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaannd another chapter bites the dust!! Well, that wasn't the best way to go about it.   
> Anyways, we're 14 chapters down, and nearing the end.   
> Of course, Vanshika has had a HUGE hand in my regular updates, and in having the story make overall sense. So lots Of love to you!!!!! 
> 
> And if you like the story, please leave kudos or comments or constructive criticism!!!!


	15. If I Were To Choose You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You saved my life!" Sherlock had exclaimed to Moustached John, and now he explains how. This leaves the other John wondering if he is making the right decisions.

John, who was still thinking about this reality's John--how he didn't hesitate to shoot a man to save someone he'd just met-- was lost.

"Saved your life? How did I do that?" He asked, raising his eyebrows. 

"Well, to understand it perfectly, you need to know exactly what happened in my version of this night." Sherlock explained, nodding in turn at both Johns. His expression was of a child who was giddy to tell their parents of their latest adventure, but also apprehensive of what they might think or say."You see, the poison had never been in the pills, it had been in the water they took to swallow them. I, of course, was not meant to die, and thus was not given water. That was how he won every time." Both the Johns were astonished, their mouths forming 'o's as they turned over the offered solution in their minds. 

"Though, of course, I did need to be incapacitated, so that he could leave, and so the pill had benzodiazepine. Unconsciousness is usually not harmful on the long run, if brought back to one's senses soon, but if prolonged too much, may be lethal. Moriarty, it seemed, had overestimated the capability of the Yard," Sherlock had the same disapproving look that he had when talking about the stupidity of the general population. 

"It took them a very long time to find me, and when they did, by the time an ambulance could have arrived from St Bart's, it would have been too late." Sherlock's voice was small, deliberately clinical in its approach, sanitizing the whole situation like it hadn't been him in it. 

"However," the detective continued, a wide grin appearing on his face,"there was an ambulance standing adjacent to my college building, transporting a patient to his residence for Home Care Services. I walked to them with all the energy I could muster, and thus I was able to make it to the hospital on time."

Moustached John voiced his confusion, " But where do I come in on all of this?" 

"The patient being transported," Sherlock said, pleased, "was one involved in an accident near St James' Park, brought to the hospital a day before by a nice gentleman." His grin was what was best described as a Cheshire cat's grin, all knowing and pointed and pleased with himself. 

"Oh..." Moustached John connected the dots first, perhaps because he'd had the advantage of being a part of the events, while his other self had only observed them from afar. Both of them thought of the accident, the man falling to the ground, and the -then younger- Moustached John taking charge of the proceedings, and travelling with the injured motorist all the way to the hospital. 

"That is what Mycroft was trying to tell me when I'd called him," He looked at the John with the cane "and I'd cut the call without listening because..."  _ Because I was too fascinated with you to think of anything else.  _ Sherlock's smirk faltered, and then righted itself again. 

"I saved your life." Moustached John whispered softly, eyes wide in surprise. 

All of them were silent for a bit, revelling in this new bit of information. When the effect of it wore off, however, everyone included realised the sheer anticlimactic nature of the discovery. 

Yes it felt good to know John had been the reason Sherlock was alive and well, but how did it help their current situation? 

"That's great." The other, clean shaven, John said, feeling some sort of uneasiness within him that he couldn't name. 

"Yes, actually. It made me think, though, of how, even with the not leaving the recordings on your phone; somewhere in Mycroft's database, John's name is next to mine. And it will be the in the final version of events too. Almost as if..." Sherlock's next words and expressions were chosen carefully. With an air of a man saying something almost to himself, in a thoughtful, philosophical manner, he completed his sentence with a touch of wistfulness in his voice,"as if the universe was trying to tell us something."

Sherlock Holmes was a clever man, and usually, when he subtly manipulated people, it worked. And this was John. John whom - it seemed to Sherlock- he'd known for an eternity, maybe more. 

So of course it worked. 

A glazed look passed over the features of John Watson without a limp, and a few seconds later, he said with somewhat uneven tones, "I need some time to think, alright? I'll be back here in an hour."

And so, in a rather unceremonious fashion the little army doctor left, not giving either of his companions a chance to answer. 

After the man had mixed into the London crowd, Sherlock smirked at his John, expecting him to appreciate the small bit of handiwork he'd done.

John however, was looking down at his shuffling feet, and the cane digging into the ground. "We have an hour more, I guess." His voice was too small and too uneven for it to sound causal. 

Sherlock wanted to take the tiny man into his arms, hide him in his coat, so that he could be protected from the rest of the world. 

"We could run away you know. We've met each other in 2010 in this timeline, and if we go back to our present, this will be the final version, and we'd be together." Sherlock's voice had been carefully casual, as if suggesting to go and get a drink in a nearby pub. 

John wanted to laugh, because _dear_ _God_ , this scene seemed exactly like one out of a romantic drama, the hero asking his lover to run away with him to the stars, leaving behind the end of the world.

 And it took every ounce of self control John had ever possessed to not take Sherlock into his arms, and keep whispering like a broken record into the detective's ear. ' _ Yes.. Yes... Yes... A thousand times, yes. Let's run away together _ .'

Instead, he looked up at the taller man with as much affection as he could muster, and said, "As lovely as it sounds, we can't, Sherlock. It's not just our decision to make. It's his too. And we can't cheat him like that." Inwardly, he remembered his other self's words. ' _ You'd do it, wouldn't you, if it meant keeping him safe?"  _

_ Yes, I would.  _ He replied in his head. 

In front of him, Sherlock, though he should have been angry, was not. He should have argued with John, asked him if it was right that the other John could take away their future together like that, subject them to a life they hated. Except-- expect the reply was so  _ John _ in its nature, and really, Sherlock couldn't reprimand him on something that the detective considered one of John's many positives. And so he settled for a slightly exaggerated sigh, asking the army doctor gently, "do you think he would do the same for us? Consider our opinion too?" 

John hesitated a little before replying, "Yes." His resolve seemed to strengthen in his eyes, and he spoke with more determination. "Yes, I think he would."

Sherlock wasn't so sure about it, in fact he was almost certain it wouldn't be the case. Which is why he hadn't left things to chance alone. 

"Well, if he does change his mind, I rather think you should thank me." When John looked at him quizzically, Sherlock continued, " Over the past day, I have been dropping hints-- or rather manipulating John to reconsider the decision he's about to make. I did so in various ways, by emphasizing on the negatives of both of our lives without each other and, like I did just now, putting the idea into his head that he cannot really separate us. That we would find each other in every reality no matter what, and therefore made him doubt whether he was doing the right thing." The whole monologue had the air of facts being narrated, even the last sentence. Sherlock hadn't even realized that it was poetically romantic, which John found incredibly to be the case. 

And so John smiled at the taller man affectionately. "That's incredibly clever of you." 

Sherlock, of course, glowed under the praise, though what he'd said wasn't entirely true. The 'hints' he'd dropped were more of a desperate plea to the other John, and they weren't as planned and deliberate as he'd have liked to show. 

"John," he said, the name sounding like an endearment, "since we only have this one hour before our past is changed, do you want to go out somewhere? "

John laughed a little, "What? Is it a date?" He teased. 

_ It's everything _ , Sherlock thought to himself, their first date, their last date, the day they fell in love, and the day they fell out of it. It was all the days they'd never have together, compressed into an hour. 

And perhaps John read it in his eyes, because his voice was very soft when he asked,  "And how are you going to pay for our date?"

"Oh, don't worry." Sherlock said, and produced a few notes from his coat pocket with a smirk. "Nicked it from the other John." 

"Of course you did" John's smile was like a million bulbs lit up. There was an 'I love you' left unsaid in the remark, but fortunately, things that are unsaid are not always unheard. 

\-----------

Walking away from John and Sherlock, was the other John, who steadily retreated from the duo, his clean shaven jaw clenched, hoping to physically escape his thoughts by walking away. 

_ If only he could. _

His thoughts kept shooting at him like sharp, fierce arrows, released by sure, nimble fingers. They pierced John's skull painfully, numbing him to everything else, so that he wasn't even aware of where he was headed. 

Before he'd been so sure that he was doing the right thing, even if every step towards it had been heartbreaking. It had been like he'd told the other John:  _ If it meant keeping Sherlock safe... _

But now, that too had changed. Sherlock wasn't safe anymore. The sleuth had shattered that delusion with a fucking bulldozer, leaving John with a head full of doubt and misery. 

There was a sensation of deja vu in all of this: Him coming to terms with the fact that Sherlock was not  _ okay _ , that John himself had been of no use, indeed, one could say that he was the cause of it.

In his reality, he didn't know that Sherlock was using. He hadn't been there, beside Sherlock, preventing him from succumbing to the needle. In other John's reality too, he wasn't there to prevent Sherlock from taking that damn pill, wasn't there to save him from the storm that was Moriarty. 

Not that he was much of help in his own reality. But he was still there to act as a cushion to Sherlock, whenever he would fall from the stress and pressure of a situation on his mind. 

But he wasn't that for  _ his _ Sherlock at the time he took the needle. On the contrary, he was the  _ cause _ for it. 

_ Why is everything, always _ ,  _ my fault _ ?

John heard a low, animalistic growl, and suddenly realised it had been his own, biting out the words that he'd just thought of in his head. 

He wanted to kick something, to punch something, wanted to blast unbearably loud music-- anything to stop the voices in his head from taking over. 

Anything--

" _ Beep _ !" 

There was the loud sound of a horn being pushed hard, and John started from his reverie, looking up just in time to spot a car hurtling towards him alarmingly fast. 

John hurled himself to the pavement beside him, nearly crashing into a wall. 

The vehicle rushed past him, the aftermath of the horn ringing in the doctor's ears, and he clutched at his heaving chest, profanities escaping from his lips in a steady stream. His heart raced a mile an hour, the world around him muted, in slow motion, as his brain tried to register what just happened.  _ Right _ . He'd almost been hit by a car because he was too busy hyperventilating to look where he was going. 

Fuck. 

He really needed to calm down. 

And so John took a deep breath in, and let it out slowly through his nostrils, feeling the throbbing in his head ebb just a little. 

_ Good _ . Now, slowly, very slowly, he must focus at his problem, considering the bad side and good side, as if it were a debate he was hosting. 

_ Yes, that seemed doable _ . He could do that without his head exploding.

He thought about the fact that in the universe without each other, he had married Sarah, unhappily so, and had been living a dull, listless life until the recordings showed up. 

Until  _ Sherlock _ showed up. 

No. No. That didn't matter. He could live a dull, listless life- hell, he could live a life of bloody torture, if it meant Sherlock was safe.

_ But was he? _

John remembered the events that Sherlock had told him last night. Constant drug abuse, overdosing four times, multiple trips to the rehab. Sure, he had no scars on his back, but he did have an array of puncture marks on his wrists instead. 

Fuckity fucking  _ fuck _ . 

But what also hurt John was that Sherlock wasn't as famous, as appreciated, as renowned for his talent as he was in his universe. 

And there was another thing. Something so heartbreaking, that his conscious had suppresed it until now. Until his line of thought had been around the corner of his observation. 

The look Sherlock gave, when his John- Moustached John- praised him. This John, who'd only known the other two for two days, recognised the look. It was the same one that  _ his _ Sherlock had given him, back in 2010 of his timeline, when John had praised him initially. The same surprise, disbelief, undisguised happiness, a shy smile, and a touch of uncertainty on how to react to it. As though he had almost never been praised before. 

Now in 2019, John remembered how his Sherlock reacted to the praise, the same undisguised happiness, but with more certainty: sure that he was deserving the compliment he'd received, and not surprised that he was appreciated.

It was like a stab to the gut to even imagine for a second, that this Sherlock, the one with Moustached John, had never been praised once in the nine years in between, he never been told how brilliant he was-- not until Moustached John had arrived. 

Instead he'd received harsh words and vile comments; John could hear the words that Sherlock had said Jim Moriarty had told him: " _ that I was good for nothing but for him to --fuck my face--" _

Hot, white rage bubbled through John now as it had then, because how  _ dare _ that bastard ever call Sherlock that, when the detective was so smart, so beautiful, so dazzling, brighter than the brightest star that had ever burnt. 

John only realised too late that hot tears were rolling down his cheeks, and that his heart knew what decision it wanted him to take. 

_ But was it the right one _ ? A voice asked in his head. 

_ I don't know, _ John sobbed internally,  _ I don't know and I'm so tired. I don't know but all I want is to keep the man I love happy and safe.  _

All this while he'd been more aware than before of where he'd been going, but not enough for him to not be surprised when he saw that he was only a few feet away from 221B Baker Street.

He looked up in astonishment, his misery momentarily taking the back seat, as he wiped his tears absently. 

He took the few final steps separating him from the entrance, wondering just what in the name of God he was doing here, and reached the door. 

Of course, the best thing to do then was turn around and go somewhere else; even though the John and Sherlock of 2010 were out of the way having a second dinner, it didn't mean they'd be away all night long. 

And so John was about to do just that when the door opened from the inside, and Mrs Hudson popped her head out, her cheery, mother-like voice called out. "John! The Yard went away fifteen minutes ago. And so is Sherlock, there was a cab here to pick him up. But that doesn't mean you have to wait here, come on in! I'll get you that cup of tea from before, yes?" And saying so she ushered a highly-panicking John Watson inside and to the dining table in 221A. "And Just this once, mind you, I'm not your housekeeper!" 

And despite the tears he'd been shedding only minutes earlier, John's face broke into a smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd here's another one!! Gosh, we've come so far!!!  
> And yeah, can Mrs Hudson do John and good ? Who knows...   
> Also, my timings are going to change slightly   
> From morning IST to evening IST, because my 11th grade college has started, and I've to travel a lot.   
> AS always, lots of hugs and gratitude to Vanshika, who is truly amazing!!!!


	16. Three Little Words: What A Date!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go on the date, have a quick detour and just pine after each other the whole time.

Perfect. It  _ needs _ to be perfect.

This date with John had to be phenomenal, the most superior experience that one could have in this genre of outings. 

"What is your idea of a perfect date, John? " Sherlock asked John with a light, teasing tone, though on the inside he was extremely serious, paying close attention to every gesture and expression on the doctor's face. 

"Well," John smiled playfully, "A date is where two people who like each other, go out and have fun. So let's have a lot of fun,  Sherlock Holmes." 

Sherlock made a small annoyed sound. That was no good. John had not specified anything, and as good as a detective he was, he'd only been with John a whole of one week. And what's more, he had never been on a date. No one had wanted to take him on one, and the ones that did want to, inspired no interest in him. He'd have to let John make the first move. "Then,  I suppose, you ought to take us somewhere fun first." 

"Okay." John hummed thoughtfully, and then smiled suddenly, "You know what, let's buy an ice-cream and walk in Regent's"

" _ Ice cream _ ?" Sherlock's expression was incredulous, "Isn't it a bit too cold for an ice-cream? " 

"Yes,  but it's an awful lot of fun. Plus, the place is of great historic significance." when Sherlock looked puzzled, John gave a small laugh, and then said, "It's the place where I met Mike, which led to me meeting you. So you see, great historical significance." 

Sherlock smiled shyly. "All right, but I hardly think there is going to be an open ice-cream shop anywhere near the park. 

"We'll see." John smiled and looped his hand in Sherlock's arm in a way that was merely friendly--and yet the detective found his pulse rate elevated and his movements jittery. 

And so they walked to the park, conversation flowing smoothly and laughter abundant, broad smiles on both their faces. 

Eating ice-cream on a cold night was a startlingly good sensation. Sherlock liked the icy cool that whizzed through his neurons, and the relatively mild coolness of their surroundings. He also liked the warmth that tingled on his hand whenever John's brushed by it,  and the brightness of John's smile when Sherlock narrated an anecdote. He liked the easy flow of their conversation. Suddenly, he could understand the primal, animal urge to he closer to another person -- to want to be as close as was humanly possible, perhaps more. 

Only with visible strain did he pull himself away-- after all,  he only had some time left, and he didn't want John to become wary of him so soon. And so, guiltily, he let his eyes flicker to everywhere but on John Watson. 

Suddenly, something- a deduction born out of a single sweeping glance-- caught Sherlock's eye. It was pure chance that he'd noticed it at all, and in vain he tried to dismiss it or simply ignore it, but after a hundred and twenty seconds of effort, he gave up.  

"John," he said tentatively, already sounding sheepish, "would you mind if there was a little detour from the... original path of our outing? " 

John, at first, was a little confused, but when he looked into the direction Sherlock was looking at, a few feet away: a couple standing together, the woman handing a coffee to the man. 

"They umm -- the female, I observed her putting something into the coffee before she handed it to her ex-husband. Soon to be ex-husband anyway. We could interrupt, but only if you wanted. I'm really sorry John, to bring this up. Of course, if you rather not, then we don't..."

Sherlock's panicked ramblings came to a sudden halt as laughter bubbled in John--warm and lovely-- and his eyes crinkled in that beautiful way only John's could. 

"Of course we can Sherlock! I'd been wondering when there would be crime scene for us to attend. How can a date with Sherlock Holmes be complete without a case? " to the detective's surprise,  John's laughter wasn't mocking or jeering-- it was affectionate and excited, and now Sherlock was more sure than ever that John Watson was some angelic entity from a God that he didn't believe existed. 

"Let's go, before the poor bloke drinks the stuff." John said, and the two walked up to the couple. It was then that the man decided to take his first sip of the coffee, and Sherlock shot forth like a bullet out of its muzzle. 

It was like a movie sequence, really. The cup that the would-be victim was holding was knocked out of his hands by a Sherlock jumping forth heroically,  with a dramatic cry of "Don't drink that!". The cup went flying into the air and hot, poisoned coffee splattered onto the gravel. 

"What in the world--?" The man, who, at a closer distance,  John could see was a balding man with horn rimmed glasses and clothes that made him look like a college professor. Next to him, his about to be ex-wife looked wary and disgruntled, her features contorted into disgust and her napkin furiously rubbing away at a stain on her expensive looking dress.  Apparently, the ground was not the only one who'd gottten a taste of the coffee. 

"Who the hell are you? And why did you spill my coffee?"

\-----

"Gosh that was a good one!" John laughed, as the two hastily departed when the husband wanted to call the cops on his wife after Sherlock had explained the whole thing. "The look on her face when you told him everything was priceless."

The man, Jared Woods, who seemed to be a very rich man indeed, had also wanted to thank the two "heroic gentlemen" for saving him from being "treacherously poisoned". Sadly, having very urgent business at hand, the duo could not stay another minute. 

"Yes, indeed, I did quite burst her bubble. But she did turn nasty very quickly."

The woman, Sandra Woods, had lunged onto Sherlock in fury after the expose, and before John could even move a muscle, Sherlock had her arm twisted into a strong hold, knocking out the pocket knife that she'd tried to attack him with onto the ground. 

The smirk that he'd given John then had the army doctor positively drooling. That, and the fact that Sherlock was  _ this _ good at combat.

"And you did a brilliant job tackling her as well." 

Sherlock hummed non-commitally, and then suddenly turned to John. "You said fun, didn't you? That we'd have to have fun. Yes, I know just the place!"

Sherlock's eyes were shining with delight, and there was no way in heaven, hell, or Earth that John could say no to  _ that _ look. 

"Let's go there then!" 

This meant a short drive to a place John wasn't really paying attention to, and was instead shamelessly staring at the detective beside him as he rambled on about something or the other, the smaller man not taking in a single word.

"We're here." Sherlock announced as the cab pulled to a stop, and rubbed his hands together. They alighted from the cab near a streetlight glowering harshly at their surroundings. 

"This," Sherlock announced, unable to keep a note of pride from his voice, " is the place of my most difficult case: Henry Cavendish's murder."

With a flourish, Sherlock gestured to a now empty space, drawing with his fingers an imaginary portrait of the dead body. 

"A body turns up here, three days after death has already occurred, with barely enough to know the reason and time of his death. There were no other visible indications to who he might be. This had stumped Mycroft quite a bit too, you know." 

And then, in reply to John's eager ushering, the whole case was laid out in front of him, figures from the past became alive for the sake of showing John what had happened. 

"And, so it was here, you see, that I had the epiphany-- Henry could not have possibly worn a maroon shirt! And immediately, it was all clear to me." 

Sherlock described, with wide eyes and rosy cheeks, the discovery of two other corpses, the incredible chase that had followed the confrontation of the suspect, and how Sherlock had nearly been shot at. At the end of it all, the step-son of Henry Cavendish, who had turned villainous, was dutifully arrested. 

"This is how I solved the case, John. And that's why this is one of my favorite places to be. That, and one other thing." 

With a small, genuine smile that made John's heart ache, the detective motioned towards the sky with his head as his eyes turned to the heavens, gleaming. 

John looked up too. 

Above them, in some strange play of the London pollution, the stars were clearly visible and twinkling-- hot, impossibly bright spheres reduced to glowing orbs for their amusement. It surprised John that he hadn't noticed them all this while. 

"Beautiful, isn't it? " Sherlock whispered, sounding a little breathless. Slowly, he turned to look at John. 

In the harsh light of the streets,  Sherlock looked strangely ethereal, the colour drained from his skin and his eyes, but his excitement adding a shine to his countenance nonetheless, as he stared at John waiting, hoping he'd see the brilliance of his case and the beauty in all of it too. 

_ Tell me, tell me, do you think so too? _   He seemed to ask, a variation of the most basic human longing: to be understood, to meet their own soul companion. Like two lonely stars orbiting each other hesitantly:  _ are you made of the same stuff that I am made of? _

His lips were parted slightly after the enthusiastic narration, and energy seemed to radiate in atoms that never stayed still. He looked as if he would jump out of his skin. 

And all of it was so utterly, blindingly  _ Sherlock _ , that John felt his heart tear itself apart and heal itself a thousand times,  _ ten _ thousand times. 

Because yes, he could see how clever it was, and yes, the sky was incredibly wonderful. But that didn't matter -- none of it mattered- except that Sherlock was happy, enthralled, and glowing from it all. That John Watson could live forever here, watching the spark in the detective's eyes and the upward curve of his lips. 

And here and now,  the words were more clear and louder in his mind than ever before. 

I love you.

_ I love you _ .

_ I understand you. Yes, you and I, we're made of the same stardust.  _

But he couldn't possibly say them. No. They were two people with only an hour to their names, who had no future together beyond these sixty minutes; he had no right to make it any more difficult. 

He couldn't say them, but that didn't mean he couldn't express the emotion. And so he did what either of them had never done before to each other.

John stepped closer and enveloped the taller man in a tight hug. He heard a slight 'oof' from Sherlock as he absorbed the impact of John hurtling into him like this, his hands briefly in mid air.

Really, he didn't know what was one supposed to do in a situation like this. His heart was beating too fast for comfort, and in worrying that John may sense it, he elevated his heart rate further. But what should he do now? Could he just wrap himself around John, holding the army doctor as desperately as he was being held, or would it be a breach of etiquette? 

"Oh stop thinking you poncy git and just hug me back already." came John's exasperated voice, as though he had read all the thoughts racing through the detective's mind. 

_ Perhaps he had read them _ , Sherlock mused, and found that he quite liked the idea of John being inside his head. It was rather comforting. 

And because only a fool argues with his doctor, Sherlock made a small, deep throated chuckle, and hugged John Watson back, like he was always meant to do. 

\-------

The doctor and his detective were heading back to the spot where they were supposed to meet the other John, when, in the midst of a cheery conversation, both of them simultaneously realised that this was it: their time together was over, the last sixty minutes spent too early. 

At the same time, each of them eyed the other, found the other staring back, and rapidly averted their gazes like teenagers. 

A sudden, foolish wave of bravery hit Sherlock, and he said softly, "Don't worry, John. I'll talk to the other one, perhaps we can make him see sense."

John simply gave Sherlock a wistful smile, grabbed his hand, and squeezed it for a second before letting go. 

A look at Sherlock's mobile screen told them that it had been a good few minutes past an hour, and the duo hurried towards the appointed location. To their surprise, the other John was already waiting there, his eyebrows knitted, deep in thought, when they came along panting slightly. 

The moment Unmoustached John saw them, his entire posture shifted. His shoulders grew stiff, his jaw set, legs shoulder length apart and expression neutral-- John Watson had now become  _ Captain _ John Watson. 

"Hey." he said with an equally neutral smile, and Sherlock could spot the tension in his forearms, as though he wanted to move, to flex his hands. "I've been doing some thinking. And I have reached my final, ultimate decision."

John's tone was firm and resolute, inviting no argument. In fact, one would be wiser to  _ not _ argue to that tone. 

_ Final. Ultimate decision.  _

Both Sherlock and moustached John froze where they stood. 

This would be the decision to change all others. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd I've managed to write another chapter   
> Shoutout to Vanshika for her patience and her amazing beta skills, and to y'all for reading this story!!!


	17. Not Just Your Landlady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mrs Hudson have tea, memories flood back and Mrs Hudson shows that she's the landlady of the world's only consulting detective after all.

"John" Mrs Hudson chirped and John proceeded to sit on his usual place at her tea table, the panic that was welling in his chest subsiding when she did not seem to find any discrepancy in his appearance. "Just give me a minute, would you, I'll get you the cuppa." 

The kitchen was filled with the sounds of Mrs Hudson busily busting around, humming a tune that John rather thought was Hard Metal. 

Oh.  _ Oh _ . The sheer familiarity of the scene tugged at his heartstrings. How many times had he been in this  _ exact _ place, doing the  _ exact _ thing: ten times? Ten hundred times?

Coming here was a very bad idea. He needed to go before-- before he couldn't leave anymore. It would take all his willpower to leave even now, later he would no would no longer be able to exercise restraint. 

So he made a move to get up, and succeeded in going forth two more steps, before his landlady returned with a tray full of biscuits and tea. 

"Oh, you are eager to return to him aren't you?  My husband--" she paused suddenly, as if noticing something only now, a detail she'd missed before, her eyes narrowed. "John, dear, mind you, I've only seen you once before, but somehow you look..." she seemed to be searching for the right word. 

"...Older?" John completed the statement for her, wry amusement evident in his tone. 

"Yes, that's what's different! And I'd only seen you a few hours ago!" she set down the tray, and out-of habit, John picked up the cup and took a sip, only later realizing that the action must have seemed a little impolite. 

He shrugged, sitting back down on his chair "Must be the weather, that does happen sometimes."

Mrs Hudson accepted the quite frankly ludicrous excuse, and sat down opposite John.  She looked at him for a few seconds, and then smiled widely. 

"John, I'm so happy that Sherlock met you" she beamed, touching John's arm lightly. 

"Why?" John asked, a bit confused. As far as he remembered, Mrs Hudson had never before expressed her joy at that particular topic in  _ his _ universe. 

"Well," Mrs Hudson gave a small giggle, "He met you yesterday, didn't he? When he came here in the evening, he just seemed  _ happier _ than he usually is, and I didn't even have to badger him to keep off the drugs!" She paused, sighing, momentarily lost in a memory of the past."And you know, he was talking on the phone with Detective Inspector Lestrade, saying that he mustn't assign Sherlock a case too far away, but also to not give him pedestrian cases, because he had an  _ important appointment  _ the next day." She looked at John pointedly, her eyes twinkling at the detective's choice of words. 

John laughed. "I never knew Sherlock did all of that for me." And yet, he could imagine it perfectly well, Sherlock berating Greg on how to not call him on mundane cases which he could have solved by sitting in his chair.  _ Idiots _ as he liked to call them… 

"John, you  _ are _ going to stay here aren't you? It would break his heart if you didn't." 

John stared at Mrs Hudson's expression, remembered himself shifting to Baker Street nine years ago, from his dull, lonely flat, now empty too, except for the bare furniture. With a start he realised things weren't all that different from the first time he'd seen the flat upstairs. He'd added very few items to it, maybe because he had nothing to his name. Maybe because he  _ hated _ his previous flat. 

Hated the loneliness, the dreary, dull atmosphere-- he hated it from the very first moment that he'd seen it. 

But he was an invalided army doctor, shot in the shoulder and with an imaginary limp. He lived on an army pension, and he couldn't bear to live anywhere except here, in central London. 

And so he'd taken the flat, and let the days go by, barely surviving. 

John could remember the feeling that had coursed through him when he picked up the last box to take to Baker Street, taking one last look at his previous flat. Small, one bedroom, one window, a small kitchen, one bathroom, one wardrobe, and a desk to work on. 

Knowing that he was looking at it for the last time, strangely, John wasn't filled with hatred towards this flat-- the place that had fueled his depression--instead, he felt hollow and a bit grateful.

The hollowness was fitting, the small room had always seemed empty, despite whatever he placed in it, but the gratitude was unusual. On closer inspection, John found that he was thankful to the place: thankful for being there, in an odd way, all through the miserable period, as he fell further into the abyss each day. Watching quietly as he woke up from one nightmare and slept into another.

He remembered standing in the silent room, the way it always was, a dumb witness to it all, his chest aching in a strange way and his stomach overcome by jitters, still not having registered that he was leaving the place  _ for good _ . That it wasn't just a dream. 

And that buoyant, liberated feeling as he closed the door on the four walls of his prison and began his journey on becoming John Watson again. All because of a mad, brilliant man called Sherlock Holmes, who'd somehow not found the idea of John being his flatmate horrible. 

"Yes," he said, feeling his throat well up. "I am going to take the flat." 

"Oh that's lovely!" Mrs Hudson chirped at him and stood up, patting his shoulder as she turned to the kitchen cabinets. "I'll be back in a minute."

In doing so, she pushed the chair back a bit too much, and it's leg hit a lump in the carpet that had always been there. The chair tipped towards the ground dangerously, and Mrs Hudson seemed to be losing her balance. 

In an action that was no more than a reflex, John half stood up and grabbed the top of the chair, yanking it towards him harshly, his other hand steadying the landlady with a gentle tug. He'd done it so many times before-- he'd hardly even thought about it before his hands had automatically reached out. 

"Oh!" Mrs Hudson let out a sound of surprise, and studied John for a few seconds before smiling self deprecatingly, "Oh silly me!  It's this hip I have, you see. Thank you John dear."

John just smiled in return and watched her receeding back, mentally closing the doors to his old flat. 

_ God _ . He owed Sherlock  _ so _ much. He'd never repaid it enough. 

_ If only I could do it all over again _ , he thought, but even then, he realised, he may not do it right. Giving up, he just sipped his tea.

"Sorry, dear, I was just checking on something. What were we saying again?" Mrs Hudson once more seated herself on her chair, straightening her dress. John frowned, he thought he'd heard sounds of her talking to someone, perhaps on the phone.

"Err," it took John a few moments to return to their conversation. "Yes. I told you that I'll be taking the flat upstairs." 

"Right, that's it. Oh John, I'm so happy you'll be staying here!"

"Mrs Hudson, you're wrong about one thing though." John smiled teasingly at her.

"Really? About what?" she looked at him quizzically.

"About his heart being broken. He doesn't feel things that way. "  _ At least, not for me. _

To his surprise, Mrs Hudson just chuckled, dismissing his statement with a gesture of her hand. "Don't be fooled by him my dear, he  _ does _ love to say that he's a 'sociopath', but trust me, he's a  _ very _ emotional person really."

"What, Sherlock?  _ Emotional _ ?" John exclaimed incredulously. He knew that Sherlock wasn't really a sociopath, and while his friend did have emotions, he certainly couldn't be called  _ emotional _ let alone very emotional. For him, mind had always ruled over his heart.  _ Hadn't it?  _

"Oh yes, of course he is. you'll  come to know eventually too. Bored? Shoots at the wall. Can't solve a case?  Stabs it on to the mantlepiece! When he's upset he curls himself away from everyone else. And he does  _ love _ it when I praise him!" She smiled at John in a way that said 'Oh yes I've decoded the great detective'. 

John laughed. Yes it did make a lot of sense. Suddenly he remembered the Mrs Hudson of  _ his _ universe telling him something quite similar in the flat upstairs. He'd been so stupid then. 

Stupid enough not to realise that Sherlock would go to the depths of hell to get John Watson back.

John could picture him clearly, he himself having broken down the door and Sherlock, about to die from asphyxiation, a pair of gloved hands wrapped around his neck, on a hospital bed. 

Where he'd been in the first place because of John Watson. 

Because John had kicked him and punched him and thrown him against a wall. And he  _ couldn't _ stop. 

_ Blood. Pain. Hurt. Anger. _

"Thank you for that bit of information Mrs Hudson."  John wished the moisture in his eyes could have been from mirth and not pain. 

"I hope that he's made the right choice by having a flatmate." She said it jokingly, with a twinkle in her eye. 

_ No _ , John thought,  _ not right enough. Not right enough for me to not have come back here to reverse it. And yet, not wrong enough for me to have done it already and left.  _

In thinking this he forgot to mask his expression, and his landlady having caught it, patted his hand reassuringly. "I was only joking John dear, I know he's made the right choice."

When John gave her a "I'm not really offended" shrug and a "Thank you Mrs Hudson", she added, with a soft look on her face,"I knew it as soon as he told me that decency didn't matter and the 'Game is on!' and you didn't frown or anything, you just smiled at him. Not many people understand him, you know." She had a faraway look in her eyes, and John rather thought she was talking to herself rather than him. 

"And then you both came back laughing after the Detective Inspector had gone up. I hadn't heard him  _ laugh _ in so long, John." She suddenly turned to him more fully. "He has  _ you _ John, doesn't he? " 

John looked into her eyes, and wondered if what he was about to say was a lie. Not in his timeline. But it was a lie in the one he was about to create. If he created it. 

"Yes, he does."  _ But I am not enough, not enough to keep him safe.  _

"Good." she smiled at him widely, looked away for one solemn moment. 

Then the light returned to her eyes, and she smirked at him, whispering conspiratorially, "And don't worry John, the walls here are quite thick, and I don't make myself a bother very much. And I'll knock before I enter if you want!" 

It didn't take John, who was by now very well acquainted with Mrs Hudson's suggestive comments, very long to understand her motives, and proceeded once again to assure her that he  _ didn't  _ get off with Sherlock. 

"We're not dating, Mrs Hudson. He's just my flatmate." John hoped that his voice wasn't as high as it sounded to his ears, and his cheeks as hot as they felt. 

Mrs Hudson giggled. "Live and let live, that's my motto." Clearly, like her other self in John's universe, she didn't believe in John's frequent attempts at establishing Sherlock as his  _ platonic _ friend. 

"Mrs Hudson!" John protested, but with a smile this time, and his voice wasn't so defensive either. 

It suddenly hit him that it was probably the last time he'd be doing this with her, possibly the last time he was  _ seeing _ her, before she was wiped out from his memory too. 

The room was closing in on John, the air was too thick to breathe in, and his lungs were just useless paper bags.

Unceremoniously, he stood up, nearly knocking over his empty teacup, and moved to leave the room.  "I-I should be leaving now, Mrs Hudson. Thanks for the tea." He'd made a big mistake coming here. He shouldn't have even come anywhere  _ near _ the street. He must leave--

"Nonsense, dear! Have you had dinner? Sit down, I'll get you some. Do you like curry?" 

"I really should go, Mrs Hudson." John was getting desperate to leave, now that the wave of nostalgia was nearly knocking him over. He felt as though his chest would explode and he would sink into the floor all at once. 

"John, love, you look very pale. I'm sure you haven't had dinner. At least let me pack you some chicken and curry!" Oh, lovely Mrs Hudson. Like a mother to Sherlock and him always, fussing about, and making Baker Street feel like home. 

He couldn't bear the thought of not being able to see her lined, kind face again. To not hear her sweet, gently tutting voice again. 

He couldn't bear any of it. He needed to leave as soon as he could. 

"OK, Mrs Hudson, thank you. I'll wait outside, all right?" And saying this, John escaped the room that had too many memories, pretending to fetch his coat. 

With slow, heavy steps, he walked towards the door that separated the rest of reality from this world-- Sherlock's mad, wonderful world, counting the seconds as he waited for Mrs Hudson to come with the food. 

Then, his eyes fell on the staircase that went upstairs and the wall against which it lay. 

Like a ghost whispering in his ear, he could hear his own voice that had, not an hour ago in this reality, said in between giggles and gasps. 

_ That's the most stupid thing I've ever done!  _

_ You invaded Afghanistan. _

_ I don't want to leave him _ , John thought. 

Sherlock at the roof of St Bart's, 'Goodbye John.'

_ I have to leave him _ . 

The look Sherlock gave him when John first told him he was brilliant.  _ I don't want to leave him. _

The deep, bloodied whip marks on Sherlock's back.  _ I have to.  _

Sherlock telling him that John was his only friend at Baskerville. _ I don't want to.  _

John looking down at the bloodied and fallen detective, aiming for another kick. _ I have to. _

_ '' _ My best friend.'  _ I dont want to _ . 

'You machine!'  _ I have to _ . 

'The most human human-being.'  _ I don't want to.  _

'You are a liar! '  _ I have to _ .

John felt as though he was holding a flower in his hand, letting the petals fall down one after another, murmuring,  _ I don't want to. I have to. _

A warped version of ' _ he loves me, he loves me not'.  _

The words rang in his ears until he could not hear anything else, his breathing laboured and his hands clenching and unclenching themselves alarmingly. He let out a strangled sob, and grabbed at his temples, willing the loud aching in his head to subside. 

"John!" Mrs Hudson came out with a bag of dinner in her hand, her kind face contorted by worry and concern. "Are you all right?" 

The next few minutes were spent in letting John sit on the stairs, and bringing a glass of water to him, Mrs Hudson's soothing words helping him through all of it. 

John refused to tell her what was it that had brought him to such a state, and when he deemed himself fit to leave he said his thanks and made his excuses. 

"I'm sorry for the little breakdown, Mrs Hudson. And thank you for the food." he waved the bag in his hand, while going towards the door. 

Opening the door to 221B, he walked down the steps onto the street,  _ one last time _ , he thought, and it felt like someone had stabbed him in his heart.

"John," his landlady called out, and John turned around. She smiled fondly, "you know, don't you, that Sherlock will be the best with you, even where you're from?"

_ Fuck Fuck Fuck  _

Panic welled inside John, quick and numbing, "What do you mean 'where I'm from'?"

"I'm talking about the future, John! Now go on and do whatever you have come here to do. Just remember this, alright? Bye dear!" 

And just like that, she shut the door to 221B Baker Street, with a decisive 'click'.  

John felt two primal instincts: one was to run away as far as he could, pretending that the last few seconds hadn't occurred, or bang at the door in front of him wildly, until Mrs Hudson opened the door and told him how she knew what she did. 

But he followed a third path that seemed to be the most he could manage to do: stare and gape at the door, frozen to the spot, wondering what kind of magic his landlady possessed. 

And it was now that he fully grasped the truthfulness of what Sherlock had once said to him.

_ 'Mrs Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall _ .'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh. We're really at chapter 17 hiuh.   
> Yeah, soo basically Mrs Hudson knows magic (nah she deduced it) and yeah.   
> Does anybody want an explanation on HOW she deduced it?


	18. The Third Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the conversation with Mrs Hudson, John tells Sherlock and Moustached John about his decision.

Distantly, Moustached John heard the whirring of an engine of a car, and the sound of a steel utensil falling to the floor in a flat above them, with it's characterstic 'clang'.  

He fully processed neither sound, focusing instead on the Moustacheless John in front of him, the latter's words ringing in his ears. 

_ I've made my decision.  _

Beside him, stood Sherlock, who was also looking at the other John, both mens' heart's thudding wildly as they waited for the other shoe to drop. 

"What did you decide, then?" Sherlock asked the Moustacheless John in front of him, trying to keep his agitation and panic from his voice. If worst came to worse, he would do what he'd suggested John: take all three of them back to the future, fixing this version of events as the final one. His John, Moustached John, was wonderfully honest and fair, but Sherlock was not bound by any fictitious values. He'd do what was needed to be done. 

"Well," the man standing in front of the other two started, taking a deep breath in. "I thought about it. A lot. And I realised... That you were right. That this," John gestured vaguely to his surroundings, "isn't my decision to take alone. It is Sherlock's too, and I should have asked him about it. I should have." he shook his head dejectedly. "So that's what I am going to do." 

"Oh. All right then." Sherlock shrugged casually. "I've made  _ my _ decision. You're not to change the past." 

Moustached John gaped at them both. Surely it could not be as easy as  _ that _ . 

It wasn't. 

"No!" the other John laughed tiredly. "Not  _ you _ .  The other Sherlock, the one from my universe." 

"How are you going to do that?" the John with the cane asked, spinning the object distractedly.

"I am going to use the Vortex Manipulator to go back to my future. I'll lay down the complete truth, what I wanted to do. And about both of you. Then it's all in his hands." the little army doctor let out a shaky breath, as if imagining that scene. "If he decides we're better without each other, I'll use my last chance to come back here and finish the job." His voice was quiet as he said the last sentence, and his hands looked fidgety. Obviously, that was not an alternative he welcomed, but he'd surrendered himself completely to the detective's will.  

"Oh." Sherlock said in barely a whisper. "Right. Good." 

This had been completely unexpected on Sherlock's part-- he'd assumed that John would want complete autonomy over the decision, at least after their row, and would come up with a simple yes or no answer. 

It was likelier, he had thought, that John would have gone through with his original plan, and Sherlock was prepared to do anything-- even physically manhandle the army doctor-- to do what he deemed correct. 

He had not, in any circumstance, expected this third route, which left the sword still looming above their heads. 

But it was rather touching in a way, to regard Sherlock's opinion as important, and not just as his whimsical thoughts as Mycroft did sometimes. 

"By the way," the John without a moustache asked, "you were advocating for me to not change the past. Did you think about what would happen to  _ you _ if i did that?" he had seemed to recover from his phase of thoughtful melancholy, and was back to the sharp, observant, wonderful army doctor. 

"Err, I--No." His other--moustached-- self stuttered, turning to look at Sherlock. 

Strange, it hadn't occurred to either of them to contemplate on this issue. 

"Not quite." Sherlock admitted eventually. 

This of course, set the wheels in his head into motion, and he began wildly theorising at once. 

"While I think that there is the existence of multiple universes, the events here have occurred in a linear sequence. Your reverting things back to the way they were would mean that John and I would have met, he wouldn't have married Sarah, and thus..." Sherlock stopped, apprehension visible in his eyes as he looked on at his John. " _ We _ wouldn't exist.

"And," He added, still looking at his John " that will probably happen when he--the other John-- goes back to the future. That is because on returning to the future _ ,  _ he will automatically fix  _ this _ version of events as the final one, and we'll have met then, so our  _ current _ versions will have to go. 

"If John decides to change the past later, we'll exist once again, without any knowledge of any of this." _ Or any knowledge of each other,  _ he thought. His tone was apologetic, as if all of this were his fault.

It was something they'd known all along, hadn't they?  That it would mean that their world would no longer exist, that they would live a life  _ with _ each other and everything would be better. 

Except they weren't going to spend their lives with each other. Not  _ them _ , as they lay in their bodies currently, anyway; not the same men with the same memories and experiences. It was going to be the  _ other _ John --the one standing in front of them-- and the  _ other _ Sherlock that would live that life. 

Since this was, of course, an unprecedented circumstance, no one knew what would happen. It was entirely probable that they'd be wiped clean from the canvas of the universe; that they'd simply stop existing, and no one would have any memory of  _ their _ world. 

They'd be sacrificing themselves for a future they'd never get to see. 

Both the John and Sherlock who'd known each other for only a few weeks now, stared into the other's eyes asking the same question:  _ Would you go that far for us?  _

Moustached John gave a small nod. "That's great news then!" he tried for his voice to sound cheery, and failed. "So, " he asked, "will this discorparation occur instantly or will it take some time?"

It was a useless question really, just one that had randomly popped into his head and he'd decided to verbalise. After all, how was  _ Sherlock _ supposed to know about it?

Assuming that, however, as he found out, was underestimating his detective. 

"Hmm, according to my calculations, talking 1.618 as the constant rate and other variables, we should have..." It took Sherlock a little more than eight seconds to do the calculations. "...approximately 13 minutes after John presses the button before we are inconveniently discorperated." he looked at both the Johns as if daring them to challenge his calculations. 

Both the Johns, of course, did no such thing and continued staring at the detective open-mouthed. 

"How did you-- wait. I shouldn't even ask." Moustached John, who had a comparatively lesser experience in Sherlock's wild intellect, asked and then stopped himself. Asking how would not only be idiotic but would also confuse him thoroughly. Better not then.  "Right. So we have 13 minutes before we're wiped out of existence. Okay." 

"Uh." the other John, who was quiet during this whole discussion, opened his mouth to say something, stopped and then tried to say it again. "Uh, you don't have to stay  _ here _ , you know. You have 13 minutes, might as well come with me." 

Both John and Sherlock of the other timeline looked at each other. What did they have to lose? They were two men who were ready to give away everything that they had- everything that they  _ were _ . 

"Alright, we will accompany you." Sherlock said for the both of them. 

"Okay, great." 

Everyone hummed in agreement and then all was silent at once, the three of them simultaneously thinking,  _ Let's go already, what are we waiting for?  _

Each was waiting for the other two to make a move, and kept glancing at each other like utter idiots before quickly looking away.  

They seemed to be waiting for some kind of signal, for an impetus to push them forward. 

Suddenly moustached John inhaled sharply, before hissing "Look there!" to the other two. He gestured towards the street opposite them. 

Two figures were emerging from the street onto the main road- a tall one with curly hair and a billowing coat, and a short one with golden hair that shone brightly in the harsh streetlights. 

John and Sherlock of 2010 returning from Dinner. 

They were laughing, unaware of anything but each other, eyes fixed on the others countenance, except when they blinked or had to look away to giggle. 

It was rather beautiful really-- it looked like a poster image for what the three of them were rooting for. What they were hoping would happen. 

Like a reminder of what they were fighting for. 

Moustached John could feel the resolve strengthen in the other two's eyes, and feel it in his own mind.

They were in the endgame now.  

"It's time to go, I think." Sherlock said, grabbing each of the two Johns' hands. 

"Yes." the John that didn't need a cane announced. "One. Two. Three.  _ Go _ ."

He pressed the red button at 'go', and immediately all three of them felt the ground fall away from their feet and the darkness envelope them. 

When gravity, atmospheric pressure and all the other elements returned to their surroundings, along with the air in their lungs, John found himself standing in a familiar metallic room.  

"Doctor Watson?" A voice that was usually smug and refined was agitated now. "Sherlock? And who the  _ hell _ is  _ that _ ?" 

_ Shite _ , the John without a moustache thought. He'd forgotten all about Mycroft Holmes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, we're pretty near the end aren't we? It's been a beautiful journey until now, and I hope that will remain till the end! 
> 
> As always, a huge thanks to Vanshika who makes everything so much more better!!! 
> 
> Please leave kudos or comments if you like the story!


	19. The Parts Worst Within Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, Sherlock, and Moustached John go to Baker Street give the Sherlock still there the ultimate choice.

"Oh yes, Mycroft. You. Hello." the John that didn't have a moustache smiled a smile that he hoped didn't feel as fake as it felt. "I... "

"What is the meaning of all this? I sent you back in time to repair the damage, and instead you come back with Sherlock and a man that is probably your  _ clone _ ?" Mycroft's voice grew more incredulous with every word, his eyes kept flitting towards Moustached John, trying to figure out the latter's existence. 

"Repair the damage?" Sherlock scoffed. "So it is confirmed, then.  Mycroft is just as annoying in  _ every _ universe." 

Mycroft gave Sherlock a 'what are you talking about' look before turning to John.  "Explain, Doctor Watson."

"We've only got 13 minutes, really, so not much time to explain." John said, looking at the wall clock in a poited manner. 

"Well, you won't be going anywhere until you give me a satisfactory explanation." 

The stubborn git. He truly was Sherlock's brother. 

"They're from another timeline. And I'm here to do something that both of us should have done long ago." 

Mycroft didn't seem as perplexed as a man should have been listening to the term 'another timeline'. But then again, he was Mycroft Holmes. 

"And what is that?" the older Holmes asked in a flat voice. 

"Ask Sherlock for his opinion." John answered, becoming steadily impatient. Their time was running out. 

"Mycroft, let us go or else..." Sherlock warned, and before Mycroft could sneer a 'what will you do',  the detective pulled out a gun from seemingly nowhere. 

Moustached John searched his own pockets in alarm for his gun, and finding them empty, he wondered just how Sherlock had pickpocketed  _ that _ . 

Mycroft sighed, looking slightly bored with his younger brother's hysterics, and then turned to John - the one that didn't need a cane to walk.  "Did you do what I sent you to do? "

"I will do it if Sherlock says that I should. That's why I'm here." John said calmly. Inside however, he could feel his stomach lurching uncomfortably.  _ Come on Mycroft, we don't have much time,  _ he thought impatiently. 

"But he would never ask you to--" 

"Look," John cut him off, " It doesn't matter what you think he'll do. It's not your decision, it's Sherlock's and mine. And I've left it entirely in his hands."

"John," Mycroft implored as though he was talking to a particularly slow person. "Do you really think he can be trusted to make that decision?" 

"Yes, he can. And I'm sorry you can't see that." It was Sherlock who spoke this time, and then, for dramatic effect mostly, cocked John's gun.  

Mycroft stared steadily at Sherlock, taking in whatever information he had to offer, and then his entire body sagged, as if he was very tired. "Fine. Go." He gave up, walking slowly to the doors and pushing the buttons and saying the password. 

Downstairs, the three of them sat inside the car with Anthea, and on Sherlock's insistence, the driver took them with a speed a lot higher than permitted. 

At last when the John without a moustache saw the flat, he took in a deep shuddering breath and rang the bell. 

\---------

John left Sherlock and his other self downstairs and took two stairs at a time. His heart was thudding wildly as he nearly broke down the door to their flat in 221B Baker Street in the hurry to open it, his eyes locating the one man he'd wanted to see for a past two days. " _ Sherlock _ ." it was little more than a breathy whisper, but in the silence of the room, even that little sound was audible. 

The room was not dark, per se. The evening sunlight still filtered through the window and fell onto the couch, but it was slanting, weak and orange, so that John's two favorite faces were painted the same hue. 

Rosie seemed all right again - she was reaching out to pet Sherlock's hair like she loved to, but something was off about her. She wasn't giggling or blabbering like she usually did. Rosie loved to blabber, she could go on and on for hours at end if she had the energy to do so, John knew that from personal experience.  These bouts of blabbering were just a string of meaningless, shapeless words, syllables all bunched up with each other, but they still meant so much to John, and he knew for a fact, to Sherlock too. 

And when John looked at Sherlock, he came to know why their daughter was so silent. Sherlock looked a mess: eyes red from drugs or crying or maybe both, hair a disaster from constant ruffling, his cheekbones, which used to accentuate his face, now made it him look hollow and weak.  He was sitting on the couch, holding their daughter in his arms and murmuring to her in a raspy voice. 

The moment John had opened the door, Sherlock's attention had snapped onto him, as if he was keeping vigil by the door all this time. 

"John?" his voice was rusty, but strangely, John's name did not seem to have the same quality to it, as if Sherlock had said his name a million times in the same raspy voice. 

As if he'd been singed, Sherlock kept Rosie down, and stood up almost jumping, and it suddenly occurred to John that he'd changed his clothes. He'd put on his characteristic suit and trousers, and now John also noticed the duffel bag that Sherlock had near his feet. 

"Sherlock" John said and stepped forward, and it nearly broke his heart when Sherlock flinched and took a step back reflexively. 

_ Leg, arm, knuckles. Another punch, another kick. Arms restraining him.  No. No, they have to let him go. "You killed my wife. " _

John tried to wave away the images, gulping down the bile rising in his throat.  _ I don't deserve him. _

"John, you don't have to go anywhere. I'm prepared to leave, and later Mycroft's men will come to take the rest of my luggage. And don't worry, I won't interfere in your or Rosie-- Rosamund's life at all. I--" 

"Shut up!" John nearly shouted. How could Sherlock say that? After all he'd done for John, how could he ever think that either Rosie or John could want to stay away from him? 

The conversation that they'd last had came flooding back to John, and he nearly slapped himself. Right. Like everything else, this was his fault too. 

From behind Sherlock, who was uncharacteristically silent, Rosie gave a little squeal of delight and started babbling loudly. Rosie, right, Rosie. His  _ daughter _ . Suddenly a wave of longing hit him and he realised just how much he'd missed her. "Rosie!" he called out, all anger and grief gone from his voice.

He walked up to Sherlock's side and picked up the little toddler, kissing her on the cheeks and nose and forehead and hair and everywhere, feeling tears prickling at the back of his eyes as he inhaled her baby powder scent. 

_ Jesus Christ _ , he'd missed her. 

"My love, my love, my wonderful darling. Papa missed you so very much." he mumbled into her hair and she replied with a string of meaningless but happy giggles. 

John looked up at Sherlock, who still looked like hell and was starting to bend down to pick up his duffel bag and leave. 

Panic flooded John's entire system. 

"Sherlock I'm so sorry. Please don't leave me. Don't leave  _ us _ , Sherlock. Just--" John took in a shaky breath, remembering what he'd come here to do.  Not to hold Sherlock back with him, but to give him a choice. But how was he to explain everything that had occurred in the last 48 hours? 

"Time travel is possible." 

It came out utterly unbidden, a very poor thing to point out in the bigger picture, but that's what came out of John's mouth when he was trying to decide which of the million things that were on his mind he should voice. 

"What?" Sherlock looked perplexed. He straightened up again,"Yes, I already knew that, but what has it got to do with everything else? " He asked, forgetting his duffel bag in confusion. 

"What? You already knew time travel was possible?  _ How _ ?" Come on,  _ this _ was impossible. How did Sherlock know that? John had hoped for at least some sign of surprise really, knowing how  _ he'd  _ reacted when he found out. This just wasn't fair. 

"That doesn't really matter. But I did theorise that perhaps from the future or from another extraterrestrial species we might have gotten in contact with time travel by now. Of course, only the highest order of governments and other such authorities could have any access to it, but it does exist." 

After seeing John's open mouth, Sherlock rolled his eyes in an exasperated manner and asked again, "What has it got to do with our current situation?" his eyebrows were knit together in genuine confusion, with that little wrinkle between his eyebrows that John found  _ adorable _ . 

Which was why he wasn't sure what he wanted to say for a few seconds, and after mentally reprimanding himself, John began to give a short account of the last two days, leaving out whatever was not immensely important. He hoped that he would have time to tell Sherlock about the other things later. 

If Sherlock would still have him. 

Back then, when he'd originally thought of this plan, there had been some part of John that had thought that Sherlock would choose him: he was Sherlock's best friend after all, if nothing more. But now, as he explained it all to the sleuth, panic rose rapidly as his old fears came running back to him. Yes, he was certain now, Sherlock was better off without him. How had he thought it could be otherwise?  

Yes, Sherlock would see reason and leave him. John was almost certain of it now.  

"And then I realised- it wasn't about me was it? It was about you, it always had been. And so I thought it best to present this case to you. The other John and Sherlock are waiting downstairs. The choice is yours, Sherlock, it's all in your hands. And if you think we're better off without each other, I'll do the rest and make sure of it." 

"John that is  _ utter _ nonsense," Sherlock said looking positively flummoxed, "why would I--" 

"No," John stopped him. And even as he said the next words, it felt like he was stabbing his own heart, "You  _ need _ to think about this Sherlock. I have started to believe that you would be better without me for good reason. This is important, and I need you stop and actually consider this, alright? So go downstairs and talk to them."

Sherlock looked adamant and not willing to do as he said, and so keeping in mind the scarcity of time, John said something he had wished he didn't have to say like this. Like it was weapon. "I know about the scars on your back, Sherlock. About how you faked your death to save  _ me _ ." He watched as Sherlock tensed, and how his hand subconsciously reached for his back. John  _ hated _ himself with a burning passion now.

"And I think that's just another thing that will be gone if I am too. It's things like these I'm talking about Sherlock, and I need you to consider it.  At least once. _ For me _ . " he managed to say, completely ignoring the way his voice gave away in the end. 

Sherlock looked into his eyes like he hadn't in a very long time, with piqued attention and clarity of thought, like he was digging deep into John's soul. Then, with shoulders slumping in resignation, he nodded wordlessly. 

"Oh," John added suddenly, "and take Rosie with you, yeah?" 

The night he had talked to the other Sherlock about the drugs, in 2010, when he came back up, he found his photo gallery opened on his phone, and a well awake but pretending to sleep Moustached John. And of course he'd noticed the look Moustached John had whenever he talked about his daughter. Contrary to what his genius detective believed, he had acquired more precise skills of observation after years of being friends with him. 

He was in love with Sherlock Holmes, after all.  

"Won't you come with me?" Sherlock asked quietly. He had gone over to the door and washand was in the process of removing the coat from the hook. 

"No, I want to... Rest for a bit." 

Of course he couldn't come down with Sherlock. He couldn't bear to see realisation dawning in Sherlock's eyes as he talked to Moustached John and the other Sherlock.Couldn't bear to see Sherlock Holmes realising that he'd never needed John Watson, and that he was better off without him. 

_ Just a piece of ordinariness for you to dazzle.   _

He remembered Mycroft's cold words well. Sure the older Holmes had just been trying to get Sherlock worked up, but wasn't it the truth?  Wasn't a John-less life better for the detective? One without Moriarty, one without a fake suicide and whip scars and pain and grief and  _ everything _ that John couldn't save him from -- including John himself.  

"Alright." Sherlock murmured. It was a submission to John's will, like considering John's request to go down and meet the other detective and blogger had been. 

Sherlock would have liked to meet himself from another dimension anyway-- just not like this. He couldn't imagine wanting to stay away from  _ John _ . Or Rosie for that matter. But his doctor had specifically asked him to at least think about it once.  

He wondered, after all they'd done for each other, after all the ways John had come into his life and just made everything  _ better _ ; if there could be anything in the universe that could make him not want to be with John. It didn't even come within the  _ realm _ of possibility, and yet the way John had talked, had said that he'd 'started to believe', it scared Sherlock to think that the universe might not be willing to keep them together after all. 

And so, with his heart in his mouth, stomach churning uncomfortably, Sherlock took Rosie from John's arms. In the process, their hands brushed, and both of them took in a sharp breath. 

It took Sherlock all he had to not fall into his doctor's arms, instead of walking down the stairs of their home.

Upstairs, John watched from the window the waiting forms of the Sherlock and John of the other universe, and, a few minutes later, his Sherlock and Rosie reach them. His insides seemed on to be on fire, melting him, consuming him whole.  

_ If you could see the parts worst within us, _

_ would you still love me, or would it all turn to dust?  _

\--------

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters to go!!! (maybe three), until the end. Gawddddd Poor John. And poor Sherlock. What choice will he make? Only god knows (and maybe I do).
> 
> As always, a HUGE THANKS TO VANSHIKA WHO MAKES EVERYTHING SO MUCH MORE BETTER, AND WHO TOOK THE LAST LINE AND SPRINKLED HER MAGIC DUST ON IT!!!


	20. Just The Two Of Us Against The Rest Of The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets the Doctor and Detective from the other universe, as does Rosie, and finally, the decision is taken.

Almost. The Sherlock Holmes from the other timeline in front of the detective was almost like himself. The only real difference between them was that one was holding a baby and other was not. 

His eyes moved to look at the John standing beside him, who was sporting the hideous moustache  _ his _ John had thankfully given up a long time ago.  That, he was certain, was a definite disadvantage of his not being with John in that universe. That, and the fact that the army doctor still had a cane in his hand. 

Distantly, he could remember the look his John had given him when Angelo had come to Baker Street with the cane. His heart had skipped the beat when he saw the huge brilliant smile on his soon to be flatmate's face. 

He would soon learn that he'd do anything to keep that smile on his face.  

"Erm, hello." It was awkward, but that was all Sherlock could manage to say. It was a historic word, really.  _ Hello _ . The first word ever spoken through the first ever telephone one floor away. This, Sherlock supposed, was a historic moment too.

In his arms, Rosie squirmed around to marvel at the appearance of two Sherlock's together, and to stare at moustached John, who though looked like her own father, was definitely not him.  

"Hello." the other Sherlock said, with a curt nod. Hadn't he planned out what he would do if he ever met his clone when he was very young?  Back then, it was an enthralling idea to meet someone just like him, who would understand him, and neither call him a freak, nor think he was disappointgly slow.  

Perhaps that was what he wanted all along. And perhaps, he'd found it, not in this twin but in the army doctor beside him. 

Both the Sherlocks observed each other for a minute, picking out all the differences between them, since they had so many similarities. And then the Sherlock holding the baby looked at moustached John, and grimaced. "You married  _ Sarah _ ?"  He sounded genuinely confused and a bit offended, as though he couldn't believe the John's sheer stupidity in doing so. 

"Err, yes." John said, a hand coming up to rub his neck automatically which he stopped midway. He was obviously  _ not _ ashamed of marrying Sarah.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and then stopped for a second,  noticing too easily how John's eyes reverted back to the little girl in his arms every few seconds, and he nearly groaned. So this is why his John had sent Rosie downstairs. 

"Go on," he said to the army doctor, holding out Rosie to him. "You can hold her." 

John looked alarmed at first, and then tentatively brought out his arms, looking at the little child as if she was some unearthly wonder.  _ My daughter _ . He let himself feel how the words tasted in his mouth, not spoken yet. But there. And true.  

Rosie sensed something was wrong fairly quickly, of which the Sherlock, who'd brought her up, was immensely proud of. She sensed it as soon as she was dropped into John's arms. It was obvious really, that this man looked like her father but was not. He smelled very different. Who was this then? A monster? 

Rosie's eyebrows scrunched up in a way reminiscent of Sherlock, and she began to cry in the harsh, deafening way that toddlers do.  

Immediately John panicked, looking as though he'd drop her from alarm, but instead reflexively started rocking her in the only way he knew how to, murmuring soothing words. 

And as if by magic, Rosie's wailing quieted down abruptly, and she tilted her head a bit, surveying the doctor with those beautiful blue John Watson eyes , seeing him in a new light. Perhaps he was her father after all. 

Sherlock, of course, knew what had happened. His John rocked Rosie in a similar fashion, and the similarity led Rosie to reconstruct her belief about John's identity. 

She reached out her tiny little hand, and her index and middle finger brushed against John's moustache in bewildered fascination. "Gaga?" she said softly, which actually meant "Papa? Is that you? " 

"Hello, Rosie." John cooed softly. 

He couldn't breathe. Was this what parents felt all the time? Rosie felt so tiny and precious in his arms, her fingers looked unbelievably microscopic, and she fixed her bright blue eyes on him in such wonder that John couldn't help but smile widely. 

He was holding the most beautiful and important thing on earth. And the fact that this small, porcelain doll-like child had  _ his _ DNA, he simply couldn't believe it. He didn't try to blink the moisture out of his eyes. 

Rosie giggled in response, showing her gummy and toothless mouth, and John felt weak in the knees.  

And then it struck him that this wasn't his daughter. That he shouldn't be head over heels for this little child, she might have his DNA, but he was in no way her father. That he'd never be. 

A dull ache was rapidly spreading in his chest, and it would consume him whole if it didn't stop.  

"She's beautiful." John said, a bit broken, and handed her back to the detective. 

Sherlock duly took her in his arms. "Do you want to hold her?" he asked his other self, who'd been looking at her with interest. 

"Er, no. No, I'm fine." Sherlock seemed a bit horrified at the idea. Perhaps he was nervous about how Rosie would handle it. 

Rosie, however, had fully accepted the presence of a slightly different Papa, and two Sherlocks, and so, eagerly reached out to the other Sherlock. God have mercy on him. 

After an awkward session in which Rosie booped Sherlock's nose, and much to his alarm, tried to pull his curls, she was immediately handed back to the original parent, and the conversation was allowed to continue.

"What did you tell John?  My John, I mean. He's babbling utter nonsense." Sherlock demanded from the other detective. 

The Sherlock who was not holding Rosie took a split second to remember what he'd promised to the John currently watching them from the window of 221B. 

_ "You can't tell him what you think. We're here to give him a choice, alright? Not make one for him. He should know why he would have a better life without me " John looked pained even as he'd said it.  _

"Nothing that wasn't true. We're here to tell you the facts about our life." the other Sherlock bristled at his other self's impudence. He was not happy with the Moustacheless John's request, but had to accept that it was a fair one. 

Moustached John, on the other hand, thought it was rather amusing to see two Sherlocks being rude and blunt to each other and also being collectively annoyed and fascinated by each other in turn. But he decided to intervene before a battle of wits started between the two geniuses. 

"Er, yes." he cleared his throat. "We have lived a life without knowing each other until very recently. So fire away, I suppose." 

The Sherlock to whom this was addressed looked completely unwilling to do so at first, but perhaps remembering the time constraints and the promise he'd made to  _ his _ John, set his jaw and set down to asking questions quickly in a fast succession. It felt like a round of Rapid Fire. 

"John, what is your profession?" 

"I'm a GP, I work in the clinic with Sarah--" 

"OK. And you have no children because you're unable to, yes? " 

"Umm. Yeah." 

"Sherlock  what do you do? " 

"I am still a consulting detective, of course." 

"What is Moriarty's status? " 

"He--left me alone after our meeting at the pool. ", the other Sherlock said in a clipped voice, not quite meeting anyone's eye. He wasn't sure if he wanted to give away anything more. He stared at the ground, his shoes, the other Sherlock's shoes, the gate to 221B, but deliberately evaded eye contact, especially with his other self, knowing how much he could see from his eyes alone. 

"Oh." The Sherlock holding Rosie was silent for some time. Then he asked in a small voice, "So I don't fake my suicide either?" 

"No, you don't." his other self sounded so very tired. John squeezed his arm in support. 

"Is that why John thinks--? " 

"Yes. He thinks  _ he _ 's somehow the reason for all your problems."

"I don't understand!" the Sherlock holding Rosie in his arms said in a very irritated tone, his spare hand combing through his hair in frustration. "Doesn't he understand? I don't  _ care _ about Moriarty. I don't  _ care _ about the scars or--"

"But he does, Sherlock." It was John this time who spoke, no longer leaning on his cane subconsciously. " _ He _ cares. He cares that you didn't tell him, that you bore it silently. Because he lov-- _ cares _ for you and doesn't want you to be hurt.", and then the army doctor added silently. "He thinks that he isn't worth the pain."

"No.  _ No _ ," Sherlock protested vehemently, causing the toddler in his arms to look up in alarm. "Of course he's worth it!  He's worth everything  _ \--all _ of it." 

The other Sherlock hummed in agreement, before quirking an eyebrow. "Does he know that?" 

The detective with the toddler in his arms gave them a pained look. "But how can he think you're any better? You still take drugs all the time, have few cases that Lestrade gives you, and have  _ nothing _ !" he said the last word scathingly. The other detective didn't even flinch. "And you, John, you have your limp, a life you hate, a wife you don't love, and ran after him" he gestured to other Sherlock, "like a  _ puppy _ when you met him. You were so bored!" 

"Yes," John replied cooly without missing a beat. "And you're both the same person. So shut the fuck up and  _ make your choice _ ."

Choice. The word echoed in his mind strangely, and 4.54 seconds later, Sherlock knew why. 

Choice. It's all a  _ choice _ . 

Everyday, every minute with John had been a choice. He'd chosen to live with him and so had John. And every night no matter what happened, it had been a choice to still be there the next day. To be there even after meeting Moriarty at the pool, even after Irene Adler and Baskerville and the rooftop of St Bart's. Even after two years of grieving. Even after John got married. Even after he no longer was married. 

Even after Culverton.

Even after Eurus. 

They'd chosen each other every time, without failing, albeit sometimes not immediately. But eventually they'd drift together and stayed that way. 

Sherlock looked at the John and Sherlock in front of him, who were exchanging a worried look and communicating wordlessly as if they'd known each other for years, even though by John's limited explanation they'd known each other only for a few weeks. 

They would choose each other in every universe too, it  seemed. 

And that's all this was. To know what could have happened if they'd not known each other. To know the ups and downs of that other life. And of not choosing  _ them _ instead. 

_ Just the two of us against the rest of the world.   _

"I think I know what to do. " He said, in a voice that did not encourage any further questions. 

John was about to ask what he'd decided, but then Sherlock, who was holding the child in his arms, did something, and John had his answer. 

Sherlock looked down at Roise who stared back at him with those blue eyes and had a concerned expression that could no doubt beat her father's. He pressed a sloppy kiss to her forehead, and then remembered something. 

"How long do you have now? " 

John made an uncertain sound, and was about to give a rough estimation when the other Sherlock cut in. "A minute and thirty five seconds. Thirty four, now." 

"Oh." the man holding Rosie took in a sharp breath, wondering how it'd feel to know you'd be wiped out of existence in a minute. He didnt miss the look the other detective and blogger gave each other. 

It was time.  

"I think I'll leave now, so you can... Bid your goodbyes." 

John nodded jerkily, and then seemed to involuntarily reach out to Rosie. Sherlock handed him the toddler one last time, and the tiny army doctor looked at her very carefully before cautiously kissing her hair. She emitted a giggle with something that resembled "Da!" 

He gave her a watery smile before looking at his Sherlock, asking silently if he'd like to hold her as well. The detective looked unsure, before nodding slowly, and awkwardly held her in his arms, and Rosie, now used to being transferred from one person to another, contently sucked on her thumb, her other hand coming up to pat Sherlock's cheek. 

The detective relaxed now that she wasn't trying to pull his hair, and gave her a wide, genuine smile. "Bye-bye, Rosie." he spoke softly, trying to imitate moustached John's previous actions. Rosie responded by removing the thumb from her mouth and babbling something that sounded similar to a 'bye bye '. Sherlock's smile widened, if that was possible, and the other Sherlock spotted John gazing at his detective adoringly. 

Did  _ his _ John look at him like that too? It quickened his pulse to think about it. 

"Bye Rosie." Sherlock said at last, relinquishing the toddler to her rightful parent, and she visibly calmed down at finally being in his arms. 

"All the best" John said jokingly, and Sherlock gave a weak laugh. Now that he'd taken the decision he wasn't sure how he would communicate it to his John. Would John accept his decision, or would be still be convinced that they were better off without each other? 

He glanced down at the little girl in his arms who's eyelids were growing heavy with sleep, her lips forming a pout. His heart ached at the very thought of never seeing her again, of never seeing John. 

No, he couldn't let that happen. He'd go upstairs and beg on his knees to John if that's what it took. 

"Goodbye, then." he said, and nodded to the two men who said their farewell in turn, and hitching Rosie up a little to settle her better, turned around to face Baker Street, and the inevitable discussion that was waiting for him in the room above. He tried to look for John through the window, to see if his army doctor was there by the window, but couldn't see anything. 

Behind him, the John Watson and Sherlock Holmes of the other universe got ready to say their goodbyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. We're only one chapter away, and yes Sherlock finally decided. Aah. Has this been wild...  
> As always a huge thanks to Vanshika who makes the mistakes and loopholes apparent and fixes them too!!!!.  
> Also I was ill for a few days, so sorry for the late chapter!!  
> And as always, if you like the story, please leave a comment, kudos or concrit!


	21. If You'll Have Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The John and Sherlock of the other universe bid goodbye to each other and the world, and the John and Sherlock of this universe say hello to a new future. 
> 
> ((This is the last chapter of the fic.))

Sherlock and John watched quietly as the Sherlock holding Rosie disappeared behind the door with the child, and then reluctantly turned to each other. They weren't ready for this. For being wiped out of existence. Not yet.

"How much time is left?" John asked, feeling his rapid pulse increase as he tightened his grip on the cane. 

"Forty-six-- forty-five seconds now." he met John's eyes and gulped. What could he possibly say? Nothing. For once, his mind was damningly blank, his thought process stuttering like a car engine that failed to start. 

"Well then," John said, and then opened his mouth to say something. No words came out though, and a sudden snort escaped him. "I can't think of a single thing to say."  _ There are too many things I cannot say to you.  _

"Nor can I."  _ As do I, john. As do I _ . 

Whatever could they say? They had only known each other for a few weeks. It was too soon to call it love, and yet too strong to let it be mere liking or attraction, when in another timeline they'd known each other for nine years. Their entire situation was atrocious, unfair. It had been only two weeks.  

Briefly Sherlock recollected their 'date'. Their first, and only. An hour to merely taste everything that could have been.  

And now, a few seconds to express everything that they'd felt-- the tsunami of emotions to be summed up in a bottle.

"I--" John began, and then stopped, looked meaningfully into Sherlock's eyes, "I had a really great time with you Sherlock. Thank you."

"Er," Sherlock, for the first time in his life, he thought, was stumbling over his words. "I also-- I did too John. Thank you too." 

No, no, no. This was wrong.  All wrong. They sounded like two colleagues thanking each other after a morning of golf, when it had been more--  _ so much more.  _

John's breath caught in his throat as he thought of all the things he wanted to say.  _ You're amazing, Sherlock. You're brilliant and wonderful and every moment with you has been the best in my entire life and-- if I let myself admit it-- I think I'm falling in love with you.  _

Suddenly, just as he was about to say it, Sherlock started looking different. He could start to see the lamppost behind the detective. 

_ Oh no _ , he realised with a sinking feeling. They were fading out.  And sure enough, when he looked at his own hands, he could begin to see the gravel underneath his feet through them. 

"Sherlock--" John said this at the same time Sherlock called out 

"John I--" 

And for a second, both of them looked at each other in surprise, not having expected that. 

Unfortunately, it was one moment of hesitation too long. John faded out completely in front of him, and Sherlock could also no longer feel the ground beneath him.  

They locked eyes one moment before everything went black, and found the same look in the other's eyes.  

_ Hope, fear.  _

A prayer. 

_ Let them have it. Everything that we could not. Every day, month, and year that we've lost-- let them have it.  _

_ Every kiss, date, and love declaration that we could not share-- let them share it.  _

_ Give our love to them, so that they can  can give it to each other.  _

_ Everything that we weren't meant to have. Let  _ them _ have it.  _

They could only hope that their prayer would be answered. 

\--------------

John had stopped looking out from the window a good time ago, and so hadn't seen his Sherlock come towards their flat with Rosie. He had been sitting in Sherlock's chair that smelled too much like the detective. He couldn't bear it, yet it was his only comfort. 

Every second Sherlock had been downstairs, John had become surer that his detective would see the truth  clear as day, and would walk up to him, and confess, not meeting the doctor's eye. "You were right, John. I think you should go and change our past. It's only for the best." perhaps he would offer to help too. 

No. No.  _ No _ . 

John wouldn't be able to bear that. He would do it himself, alone. 

Like a soldier on a suicide mission. 

John's throat was slowly closing in upon itself, his heart beating hard enough to bruise, his temples fit to burst, and his limbs aching and tired.  

Truth be told, ceasing to exist didn't seem like such a bad idea after all. All at once, it seemed, the energy in his body seeped out in one go, leaving behind a lifeless corpse. He hadn't known he was this tired. 

And so, still contemplating the end of his existence, John fell asleep, but wasn't quite into it when the door to the flat opened and a very silent Sherlock holding a not so silent Rosie stepped in. 

John dimly registered them, his sleep-addled brain forgetting all about what Sherlock had gone down to do. 

"John." Sherlock's voice called to him softly, and roused him by gently shaking his shoulders. 

Still sleepy, John opened his arms and murmured, "Yeah it's alright, I'll take Rosie." It was out of habit, really, a routine that had etched itself into his brain and fingertips, and he waited for Sherlock to fill his arms with the warm bundle. It never came. "John?" Sherlock shook him harder. 

John woke up with a start, and his now wide awake eyes fell upon the duffel bag his leg had brushed against. 

Maybe it hit him so badly because he'd very nearly forgotten all about it, maybe because of the ease with which he'd forgotten about it or maybe because deep down, he was still living in their past, but he instantly scrambled to his feet and unsteadily faced Sherlock, feeling a dull ache began in his left leg.

_ No. Not now. Please, not now.  _

"I, er, talked to the John and Sherlock of the alternate timeline." 

_ Oh yes, them _ . John had forgotten all about them, and suddenly a panic seized him. "Where are they?" he walked up to the window faster than was necessary, but he  _ had _ to know.  

On the street outside, there were a handful of passersby, but no one that matched the description of him and his doctor. "They, aren't there." 

"Yes," Sherlock admitted, "they only had a minute left when I turned to come here. Their time must have run out by now." Sherlock swallowed as if he'd tasted something bitter. 

"Oh." John didn't know why that affected him as much as it did. He had known all along, after all, that this was to happen.

 And yet.

He'd spent two days with the two men, and he felt strangely hollow at the thought of them no longer existing. 

He took a step back from the window, and then one forward towards Sherlock, nodding his head , accepting, and giving Sherlock leeway to talk further. 

"I am sorry John." Sherlock said, and John understood why. He knew what would follow next.  _ I am sorry John, but you're right, we're best left without each other. I am sorry John, I think I should leave.  _

_ I'm sorry too _ , John thought, his stomach turning uncomfortably. He braced himself for the words to come out of Sherlock's mouth. 

They never did. 

"I'm sorry for everything that I made you go through. For not telling you about the scars, or that I was alive when you thought I was dead. Or letting you believe ," Sherlock paused, eyes flitting away from John. "that you could have ever been the source of my unhappiness." 

John's breath caught in his throat, and he tried to gulp it down. 

_ Not this, please. Not this. _

"On the contrary, you've always influenced me in the best of ways and made me a better man." John could picture the morgue again, one punch after another, and Mary talking in the recording.  _ Go to hell, Sherlock.  _

No. John did not deserve the praise. He wasn't worthy of it. He'd pushed the man in front of him into the depths of hell to bring him back. He'd been selfish and not even noticed when Sherlock was himself falling apart.

"John," Sherlock demanded, "stop  _ thinking _ ." 

"I can't," the army doctor's voice came out more broken than it had meant to. "I can't stop thinking Sherlock, about everything you said this morning. And to think that I didn't even fucking know about it--" 

"Don't beat yourself about it. I hid it well, John. I  _ am _ the world's best consulting detective after all." Sherlock tried to force a chuckle. 

"I am  _ meant _ to know it even when you're trying to hide it Sherlock. I'm your best friend. I just -- failed you." John sighed, his shoulders sagging, like he was a deflating balloon. 

_ Oh God, _ Sherlock thought, frustrated, he'd really had enough of this. "John," he said, sounding irritated, "You haven't failed me, and you never will. You've affected me since the day I met you, and always for the better. Whatever has gone badly between us is in the past can be forgiven and forgotten." 

"Not forgiven, Sherlock. You haven't forgiven me, for the- the thing at the morgue " both of them visibly flinched, images on their retinas flashing unbidden. "Because I never asked for your forgivness. And I should have. I should do it now, but I want to sit down with you and do it properly, and I don't know if I deserve that chance." 

For a minute, Sherlock could hear his alternative self speak in his ears.

_ "He is worth all of it--" _

_ "Does he know that?"  _

"Of course John, you do. You only needed to ask." Sherlock said softly, and his eyes were warm and moist as he looked at John. 

"But, what about Moriarty? You'd gotten rid of him, but the two years you spent undercover and--" 

"John, I fully understand the consequences of choosing this universe. And I rather think I can handle what happened after Moriarty died. As for the scars…..well, a few scars are a small price to pay for your companionship." Sherlock had been very brave to mention the scars, but he knew it was necessary. 

John laughed a little, still sounding utterly broken, unable to help the smile that came up in the midst of tears. Only Sherlock was capable of saying something that romantic and dramatic in a real life conversation. He nodded, taking in long, stuttering breaths, and muttering without any heat, " You utter git." 

And then he asked a question that he'd been afraid to ask since the morning all of this began. "But everything you said then--I mean this morning in the current timeline-- about not being able to cope with Rosie, and the work. What about that?" 

John's voice was quiet. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer. But he had to. He couldn't dream of subjecting Sherlock to anything the detective wouldn't like. Grimacing, he remembered Sherlock's expression that morning, broken and helpless and  _ heartbreaking _ . 

"Yes, about that." Sherlock hesitated momentarily. He looked down at the floor, then back to John from under his eyelashes, shy to put his proposal out in front of his doctor. He phrased his next words carefully. "Yes, it has been difficult for me, but I'd like to try it again with your help. If you'll have me, that is." It was a hopeful proposal, a question, a vulnerability that Sherlock put in front of him. 

And strangely, it was this that broke John. 

His chest exploded in a flurry of emotions, and the only thing he could do was to pull Sherlock into his arms, crushing Rosie in the process-- though not in an unpleasant way.  

Sherlock was warm and unexpectedly soft, and strong, and  _ real _ . And so John finally let loose the emotions that had been pent up for so long, silent tears running down his face. Over and over he kept on muttering how sorry he was, and Sherlock held him tightly, one arm still hoisting Rosie. They stood like that for a some time, a family, until they could breathe easier. 

Rosie reached out to pet John's hair to comfort him, and Sherlock pressed a kiss to her forehead, and then, quietly, one into the golden grey strands on John's head, hoping the latter wouldn't notice. 

But of course John did. For a second his heart forgot how to function entirely and he froze.  _ Did Sherlock just kiss my head? _

John closed his eyes in longing, and the words that he himself had said, in another timeline into a phone's recorder, echoed once again in his head.  _ I love you, Sherlock.  _

And he did love Sherlock. And Sherlock wanted to stay,  despite everything. That's all that mattered, really. 

None of the three heard Mrs Hudson close the door of the flat as she smiled to herself teary eyed, happy that the advice she'd given to a weary army doctor nine years ago had proven useful. 

\-------

Things would be normal eventually, just not now. But they would be better. The stiffness would disappear, they would smile more, and there would be  conversations-- conversations they didn't have before, with some more shouting and tears.

But then they would be able to look each other in the eyes properly again.

Slowly, things would become almost like they had been, before Sherlock's Fall-- except they'd be better now. With Rosie lighting up their days and both of them feeling their way around each other, both taking baby steps to something that they wanted to be, to who they really were, and they would be alright.

A prayer would be answered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK GUYS, WE'RE FINALLY DONE WITH THIS FIC. I SERIOUSLY CANNOT BELIEVE WE CAME THIS FAR. 
> 
> and yes, there is no kissing or confession here, I am aware. But it seemed to early for them the way their position was at the end, to actually kiss. But the fact that they've come to terms with their feelings for each other is huge progress in itself.   
> The purpose of the fic was for John to realise how important he is to Sherlock, and for John to start forgiving himself and Sherlock for all the hurt they've caused each other. 
> 
> As always, for the final time in this fic, A HUGE THANK YOU HUGS AND KISSES TO VANSHIKA who is utterly amazing and has been the best beta ever, making this fic a hundred thousand times better, with her intelligence and amazingness. 
> 
> And lastly, LOTS OF LOVE AND THANKS to all my readers who made this process so much more better and fun and helped me write even when I felt like I couldn't. I cannot thank you enough for all your love and motivation.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, so this is a Sherlock fic with a bit of Doctor Who in it! Please I've kudos, comment and share!


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